Action At Aquila

Aide-de-camp’s LiDrary

PRESIDENT’S SECRETARIAT
(LIBRARY)

Accn. No Class No

The book should be returned on or before the date
last stamped below.

ACTION AT AQUILA

BOOKS BY HERVET ALLEN

PROSE

ANTHONY ADVERSE

TOWARD THE FLAME:

A War Diary

ISRAFEL:

The Life and Times of Edgar Allan Poe

POE’S BROTHER
(With THOMAS OLLIVE M ABBOTT)

POETRY

WAMPUM AND OLD GOLD

CAROLINA CHANSONS
(With DUBOSE HEYWARD)

THE BRIDE OF HUITZIL:

An Aztec Legend

THE BLINDMAN

EARTH MOODS AND OTHER POEMS
SONGS FOR ANNETTE
SARAH SIMON

NEWS LEGENDS

ACTION AT AQ^UILA

by

HERVEY ALLEN

LONDON

VICTOR GOLLANCZ LTD
1938

JPR3NTID IN ©HEA T BRITAIN BY PURNELL AND SONS, LTD. T.tJ.
PAULTON (SOMERSET AND LONDON

To

CHARLES WALKER ANDREWS Esq.,

OF SYRACUSE, NEW YORK

CONTENTS

Chapter I The City of Brotherly Love Page 1 5

II “Hurrah! boys. Hurrah!” 53

III Yesterday and Tomorrow 65

IV Twilight at Harrisburg 74

V A Barefooted Recital 94

VI The Valley of Delight 115

VII A Mad Dog Interlude 125

VIII The Escape of Sergeant Smith 168

IX A Voice in the Wilderness 185

X The Arming of William Farfar 198

XI Madam O’Riley Follows the

Flag 208

XII The Valley of Solitude 222

XIII Coiner’s Retreat 233

XIV Dolls in the Shadows 264

CONTENTS

CkapierX-V The Last of Indian Summer Page 269

XVI The Giant’s Nursery 299

XVII The Action at Aquila 331

XVIII An Indestructible Union 380

XIX A Cheque for Expended Oats 436

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

Colonel Nathaniel T. Franklin, commanding
6th Pennsylvania Cavalry

Lieutenant- Colonel John Colson, second in
command 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry

Theophilus Carter, merchant of Kennett Square

General John Fithian, officer of State Militia
and veteran of Mexican War

Lieutenant Jonathan Moltan, of the State
Fencibles

Arthur Biddle, gentleman, member of Phila-
delphia Union League Club

Dr. David Craig, an old Philadelphia physician

Major Douglas Charles Crittendon, C.S.A.,
formerly U. S. A., a Virginian of General
Early’s staff

Mrs. Martha Crittendon, Major Crittendon’s
mother

Mrs. Elizabeth Crittendon, Major Crittendon’s
wife, an Englishwoman

Margaret Crittendon, Major Crittendon’s
daughter

General Philip Henry Sheridan, U. S. A.,
commanding Department of the Middle

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

Black Girl, Colonel Franklin’s black mare

James Buchanan, ex-President of the United States

William Crawford, his white servant

Uriah H. Myers, printer to the state of Pennsylvania

Mrs. Helen Myers, his wife

Mrs. Anna Gill, blind woman, mother-in-law of
U. H. Myers

Claudius, or “Cloud,” a contraband servant to
the Myerses

Mr. and Mrs. Black, of Harrisburg, Pa.

“Judge” Tener Bristline, a Pennsylvania politi-
cian and lawyer

Mrs. Russel, a Fulton Valley, Pa., farmer’s wife

Mrs. MacNaughton, a Fulton Valley, Pa., farmer’s
wife

Helen McNair, a Fulton Valley, Pa., farmer’s
daughter

Mrs. McLane, a Fulton Valley, Pa., farmer’s wife

Sergeant Smith, of Kanawha Zouaves (guerrillas)

Sergeant Killykelly, non-com in Kanawha
Zouaves

Johnson, a Kanawha Zouave

Merryweather Duane, proprietor of Morgan
Springs, a West Virginia spa

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

Agatha Duane, his daughter

Mary Duane, Agatha’s sister

William Farfar, a mountain boy

Judge Washington, a principal inhabitant of
Morgan Springs

Lieutenant Donald Sweeney, of 23rd Illinois
Infantry

Sergeant Colfax, Q.M.C., U. S. A.

Madam O’Riley, a patriotic whore

Mr. Perkins, her patriotic pimp

Captain Fetter Kerr, adjutant 6th Pennsylvania
Cavalry

Paul Crittendon, Major Crittendon’s nephew

Mary Crittendon 1 young children, sister and

Tim Crittendon J brother to Paul Crittendon

Reverend James Kiskadden, a Cumberland
Presbyterian mountain preacher

Flossie Kiskadden, his daughter

Felix Mann, sutler to 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry

Dudley, Colonel Franklin’s orderly

Midge, Margaret Crittendon’s pony

Major Mathis LaTouche, C.S.A.

Lieutenant Lyman de Wolf Dorr, of “Star
Battery” of Providence, R. I.

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

Dr. Huger Wilson, surgeon of Confederate Army

Culpepper, a contraband negro servant

CHARACTERS, MINOR OR REFERRED TO

Governor Andrew G. Curtin, war governor of
Pennsylvania

John Marshall

General Jubal A. Early, C.S.A., commanding
Confederate forces in the Valley of Virginia

Colonel Ludwig Reinohlfennig, cavalry leader
of Pennsylvania Dutch “bummers”

W. H. Thompson, manager United States Hotel in
Harrisburg

Mrs. Patterson, old lady on the Old York Road

John Patterson, her son

Mrs. Tubb, a milliner

Thaddeus Stevens, a Member of Congress from
Pennsylvania

Telfare, a young Confederate soldier from Ninety-
Six, S. C.

Sergeant Jim Russell, 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry

Alice Cary, a former sweetheart of Colonel
Franklin

William E. Burton, actor and theatre manager

Colonel Jim Mulligan, commanding officer 23rd
Illinois Infantry

CHARACTERS OF THE STORY

General Alfred Thomas Torbert, a federal
cavalry leader

James Crittendon, Major Crittendon’s brother

Ann Crittendon, his wife

Uncle Freer, of Melton Mowbray, England

Captain Thatcher, “D” troop, 6th Pennsylvania
Cavalry

Reverend John McCutcheon, of Standing Stone.
Pa.

Abraham Lincoln
General Ulysses S. Grant
* Andrew Johnson
Ian Macintosh, drummer

Major Jepson, on governor’s staff, a newspaper
editor

Note: “The Valley” is the Valley of Virginia , also
known as the Shenandoah Valley. Other valleys are either
referred to by name or spelled with a small letter.

Owing to the way in which the Shenandoah River flows,
directions in the Valley of Virginia are reversed from the normal
order of “down South” and “up North.” In the Valley
“up” means south, and “down” north.

CHAPTER I

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE

Southward, two mighty ranges of the
Appalachians shouldered their way into the blue
distance like tremendous caravans marching across
eternity. Between those parallel ridges the Valley
of the Shenandoah lay, apparently, as serene and
beautiful as the interior of the Isle of Aves.

From a high shoulder of the Blue Ridge, where
Colonel Nathaniel Franklin of the 6th Pennsylvania
Cavalry had stopped for a moment to breathe his
horse, he could see almost into North Carolina.
“Rebel country,” for the Confederates still held
the upper part of the Valley and the horizons
beyond.

Not that the colonel thought of it as rebel
country, exactly. The sight of that magnificent
landscape — despite its great beauty, perhaps because
of it — brought to his eyes a mist of sorrow that
threatened momentarily to overcast the countryside
which rolled away southward before him. He
brushed that mist indignantly away — and swore
softly. He regarded all the country he was looking
at as still a part of the United States, some of the
inhabitants of which needed to be reconverted to

l6 ACTION AT A£TJILA

the faith of their fathers — by apostolic blows and
knocks if necessary. But there was nothing personal
about the process to the colonel. The problem
posed by the horizons rolling before him was,
he liked to think, purely a military one. And in
the old days he had had too many true friends on
the yon side of the Potomac to lump them all
under the one indignant epithet of “rebels,” even
now, after several years of desperate fighting.

There were not many Americans left, however,
who still felt as the colonel did. He was naturally
possessed of that state of being which in the
eighteenth century would have been described as
an amiable soul. There was nothing weak about
his amiability, but it did make hate and blind
bitterness about anything hard to bear. Now, in
the early autumn of 1864, he sat looking down
into the peaceful, because devastated, theatre of
civil war with a dull ache about his heart.

He was too far up on the mountain for much
of the particular devastation in the Valley to be
noticeable. Here and there a gaunt chimney
rising houseless and steeple-like amid the distant
fields and woods showed where a farm or manor
house had been burned. But the fields had not
been out of cultivation long enough to make
much difference in the general view. Over the
enormous checkerboard of meadow and forest
below him the drifting shadows of lofty cumulo-

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 1 7

nimbus clouds conferred upon the Valley a kind
of dream-life of its own, as though it mirrored
the visions passing in some almighty brain. Five
miles down and away he could see the white
tents of his own command conspicuously dotted
along the border of Aquila Greek . 1

Nearer yet, from a great meadow laid like a
green table-cloth in the midst of tiny hills, came
the flash of weapons and accoutrements, a kind of
sinister blink that followed small, black lines of
mounted men manoeuvring in a cavalry drill.
Colson, his second in commafad, was putting the
regiment through its paces down there. He watched
the squadron flash into a charge. The sound of the
mass yell, which was meant to be furious and to
frighten an enemy, drifted up to him. At that
height it sounded innocuous and childish, like the
yells of boys playing Indians. Then the sudden
voice of a bugle sounding recall died away into
shivering echoes that lost themselves eventually in
a thousand folds of the mountain walls.

Someone might have been sounding taps over
the Valley, the colonel thought. The silence that
followed was ominous.

It was accentuated rather than broken by the
rushing lament of a mountain stream only a short
distance down the road at the ford below. For a
while the man on the black horse sat like a statue

1 Pronounced: Ah-wy’-la.

Ba

l8 ACTION AT AQUILA

at gaze over the Valley, unable to rouse himself
from a melancholy — perhaps an unsoldierly — but
under the circumstances a natural enough reverie.

Thought is swifter than lightning. Perhaps its
fluid nature is essentially the same. In a flash, as
it were, while he sat breathing his horse and
looking down from that giant height at his men
manoeuvring below in the Valley, the scenes of
the past few weeks — the faces and places, the
houses, the roads, and the very sound of voices —
flowed through his mind . . .

In half an hour the colonel would be back with
his men again. What that implied he knew only
too well; relentless vigilance, and the constant
anxiety of commanding in the face of the enemy.
He was just returning from a long leave of absence.
This pause on the crest of the ridge was not only
a breathing space for his horse. It was also his
last opportunity to let his mind range back freely
over the memories of home and the immediate
past. That is not to say he was being sentimental.
To tell the truth he was troubled, even perplexed,
by some of the happenings of the past few weeks.
Home as found had not been home exactly as he
had expected to find it. The sight of the camp
below had brought the end of his leave forcibly
to mind. It was only natural that his thoughts

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 19

should flash back along the trail behind him to
linger for a few moments upon what had been
for him a memorable experience.

It had been his first leave since 1861. He had
been looking forward to it for years, he remem-
bered. Twice it had been revoked just on the
eve of a great battle. Finally, he had given up
any hope of getting home at all. War and the life
of the army had at last eclipsed the memory and
even the desire for another kind of existence. He
had learned to live with the past and future
cancelled. And in three unforgettable years he
had seen a deal of active service and rapid
promotion.

He had been shot off his horse at Antietam and
had a horse shot under him at Gettysburg. A
sharpshooter had drilled a hole through the top
of his campaign hat during a skirmish at Winchester
only two months before. The graves of his friends
and those of his men were scattered all over
eastern Virginia, clear up into Pennsylvania.
Even the infantry admitted that Colonel Nat
Franklin was one cavalryman who was a genuine
fighting man.

For its fine service in the Valley of Virginia
his regiment had lately been nicknamed “ Sheridan’s
Eyes.” It was composed largely of woodsmen and
scouts and was in almost constant touch with the
enemy whenever any movement was afoot. It was

20 ACTION AT AQUILA

during a lull in the fighting at the end of the
summer of 1864, while his regiment was camping
in the Valley, for once peacefully, that he had again
applied for a furlough. He had hardly hoped that
it would be granted. He had simply taken a chance.
And then, quite unexpectedly, the furlough had
come back promptly, approved by General Sheridan
himself.

Three days later Colonel Franklin was back
home again, not far from Philadelphia, in the old
Pennsylvania village of Kennett Square.

His was the quietest home-coming possible. He
could not even expect a family welcome. He was
a bachelor. Most of his relatives lived elsewhere,
and he had been an only child. Both father and
mother had died some years before; his mother
when he was still a boy, and his father while the
colonel had been prospecting in the Far West and
doing some unavoidable Indian fighting on the
side. There had been six years of that before he
had returned to take over the old place at Kennett
Square and tried to drop back into the quiet
ways of profitable Pennsylvania farming in a
large and gentlemanly way. Then the call to arms
had come when Sumter was fired on. He had been
among the first to go.

So he was prepared to find the big stone farm-
house at Kennett Square lonely. It was inevitable
that it should be. He still looked forward to changing

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 21

that as soon as the war was over. Circumstances,
he reflected, had prevented him thus far. His life
had been too adventurous, too - full of shifting
incident to undertake the greatest adventure of
all. But he was young yet. The prime of life still
lay before him, he felt. And there might be several
who would be glad to share in what, at worst,
could be considered a prosperous life partnership.
He hated to think of it in just that way. There
had been Alice Cary, for instance. He might have
been happy with her. He had almost reached an
understanding with her just before Sumter was
fired on.

Then the war had gone on and on. Alice had
finally married a well-to-do neighbour, a very
respectable fellow. He couldn’t blame her. After
all, what the colonel hadn’t been able to do was
simply to make a good bargain out of life, even
the best of bargains. That was why he had
hesitated. And yet it might come to that yet. Here
he was in the fourth year of conflict returning to
his regiment, and the war still seemed inter-
minable.

That was one reason why the old house had
seemed even lonelier than he had expected. There
was no longer much to look forward to there.
Its future did appear doubtful. Only the past had
drawn him back to it. He knew that now. And
yet that was not sufficient to explain why he

22 ACTION AT AQUILA

had actually been glad to leave home again after
only a week’s stay.

What he hadn’t expected to find, what had
caused him to leave Kennett Square so soon, was
a certain covert hostility on the part of some of
his neighbours. Probably it was partly political.
His father had been a great Democrat, a close
friend and staunch supporter of President Buchanan.
He had constantly opposed and deprecated the
agitation of abolition, regarding it as the cause
of inevitable conflict. In the Quaker community
about Kennett Square that might still be remem-
bered against his father’s son. That there was
nothing immediately personal about this “hos-
tility,” the colonel felt morally certain. People
generally liked him. He had a warm heart com-
bined with a decided strength of character. He
was genially social. That made for popularity.
Nevertheless, somehow, somewhere the colonel
felt a gulf had opened between him and his
neighbours.

Perhaps he had been out West and in the army
too long to drop back into a settled way of civil
life, with all of its emphasis upon property and
petty local prejudices, without feeling a certain
lack of air. At any rate, he soon had the sensation
of being stifled. He tended to regard men now
for what they were rather than for what they
had. Probably some of his fellow townsmen

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 23

resented it. War, battle, is a very special experience,
and like a good many other soldiers back on leave,
the colonel found that he was no longer quite able
to explain himself even to old family friends.
Above all he missed the easy tolerance of the
spacious days before the war. Everybody seemed
to have made up his mind now about everything
— and to have closed it.

But if his Quaker acquaintances were inclined
to look at his politics and even his army service
somewhat askance, he was even less prepared for
the virulent and white-hot hatred of the enemy
made vocal by the sacred patriots and angry
taxpayers of his once kindly native community.
Frequent ferocious proposals for the disposal of
Southern leaders, the grim personal hatred ex-
pressed for all rebels, for example, both surprised
and annoyed him.

“I’ve only been fighting them,” he would say
in a half-deprecatory way when his lack of
enthusiasm over a proposal “to hang the rebel
cabinet in chains,” or some similar suggestion,
caused a lifting of fervent eyebrows to which he
did not respond. “Gome help us catch them,”
finally became his favourite rejoinder when too
hard pressed. Few of his friends seemed to relish
the twinkle in his eye at such times.

“Sir,” said one of them, a particularly pompous
and healthy merchant of his own town, when this

24 ACTION AT AQUILA

invitation was extended to him, “I am already
represented in the army by three bounty men and I
feel I have more than done my duty. I might have
bought government bonds, you know, instead of
just sending out the last two men.”

“Why, so you might,” said the colonel, “so
you might! And think of the interest you’re losing.
Why, Carter, it’s damned noble of you! Let me
shake you by the hand. No, no, the other one —
the one that’s losing the interest. I don’t suppose
you let the right hand know what the left hand is
doing under such circumstances. Do you, Mr.
Carter?” And he had left that respectable gentle-
man not a little confused, with both hands sticking
out — and unshaken.

Suddenly all this had become quite intolerable
to the colonel.

He had intended to spend most of his leave at
home, but he could no longer, under the circum-
stances, think of wasting the precious month of it
that still remained trying to explain himself to
sullen neighbours and doubtful friends. What he
needed above all was change and relaxation. To
tell the truth, a little conviviality. So quite suddenly
he wound up his affairs at Kennett Square, rented
the farm, sold some of the animals — and without
saying anything or good-bye to anybody, he had
the bays hitched to the trap before sunrise one
morning and set out for Philadelphia.

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 25

It was then nearly the end of September and
for the first time that autumn there was the hint
of frost to come in the early morning air. Also,
for the first time since the colonel had been home
on leave, he felt happy and carefree, almost
boyish. He would even have liked to sing. But he
knew too many sedate people along the Philadelphia
road to permit himself to break out into a rich
baritone at that hour of the morning — and just
on the outskirts of Media! It might cause comment.
He was in uniform and conspicuous enough
already. A striking figure, in fact, in his campaign
hat with its tarnished gold cord and acorns, with
his large humorous mouth, sun-puckered eyes to
match, and full black burnsides carefully cultivated
to conceal a youthful expression that might not
be quite impressive enough for a colonel of cavalry.
It would never do for the colonel of the 6th Penn-
sylvania to look as young as he felt. Just as it
would never do to break into song at that hour
of the morning. Someone would certainly look
out of the window and say, “There goes Nathaniel
Franklin, and he’s been drinking.” “Drinking
again,” is the way they would say it. He knew
them, those noses flattened against the pane,
sniffing. Well, he would soon be shut of them all
and fighting in the open again. Just then, however,
he compromised by whistling instead of singing —
and driving like the devil.

26 ACTION AT AQUILA

The morning road over the hills led from one
cheerful vista to another. The brisk dawn air
in the vicinity of Sharon Hill was exhilarating.
He let the team have their heads and tore down
the old Pike in the direction of Philadelphia with
the sunrise glittering on the spokes of his wheels.
As the roofs and flashing windows of the city
came in sight — with Kennett Square and all that
miles behind him — he felt relieved, convinced he was
doing wisely, at home in the once-familiar, civilian
world again. In short, his own old self, as he put it.

He didn’t know exactly how or where he was
going to spend the rest of his leave. He was just
going to let it happen. First he intended to dispose
of the team of bays. They had been eating their
heads off at home. Then he had some errands to
do. He wanted to get himself the finest saddle
horse available, for he had been riding nothing
but sorry nags since his old horse had been shot
under him at Gettsyburg. Also, for a quite important
but purely private reason, he wanted to get a
haversackful of toys.

That reason was a pleasant secret, one which
caused him to smile as he watched the servant-girls
flooding the sidewalks from hydrants and scrubbing
the white marble steps while he rattled over the
cobbles along Chestnut Street. It was still early.
He ought to have plenty of time to get things done
before the heat of the day began.

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 27

He soon disposed of his team and the trap for
a fair price at a livery stable, and light-heartedly
set out to get the toys and look up his old friends.

In the City of Brotherly Love, among other
things he hoped to find that the patriotic rhetoric,
with which nearly everyone now seemed to address
a veteran on furlough, would at least be a little
less bloodthirsty than in his own formerly peaceful
neighbourhood. But in this mild hope he was
disappointed. For whom should he encounter at
the corner of Broad and Chestnut streets but his
father’s friend, old General John Fithian, a hearty
veteran of the late Mexican War, and as fire-eating
a commander of home-guard militia as ever
ruined a white marble doorstep with broad
yellow stains.

“A sight for sore eyes,” roared the general,
shifting his quid and bushy eyebrows in genuine
and cordial excitement. “Why, what brings you
back from the front, you young Hector? We’ve
been hearing great things about you. What can
I do for you? Where are you bound for?”

“I’m looking for a toy-store,” said the colonel
almost inadvertently, and somewhat annoyed. For
the old general was a picturesque figure; the
colonel was in uniform himself, and a crowd of
idlers sensing the unusual had begun to surround
them.

“Toy-store?” bellowed the older man, looking

28 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

shocked. “Oh!” said he, suddenly grinning, “I

see. Congratulations! I hadn’t heard.”

“No, no,” replied the colonel hastily, “not
that! Just for a young relative of mine — nice
little girl.” He felt it unnecessary to lie any further
and turned rather red.

“Well, then, toy-store nothin’ ! ” rumbled the
general. “ Come into the club and have a drink.
The whole town will be there to give you a welcome.
Why, man, you haven’t seen any of your old
friends for years.” With that he linked his arm
in the colonel’s, and scattering the idlers before
him with a broad fan of amber liquid, led his
half-willing victim along Chestnut Street into the
old Union League Club.

Now I’m in for it, reflected the colonel somewhat
ruefully — and he was.

“Here’s Nat Franklin back from the front,”
roared General Fithian, preceding him as herald
and ringing a cuspidor like a gong after each
glad announcement. “Here’s Nat Franklin,”
bong! . . .

The devil ! thought the colonel, but he was too
human not to enjoy the cheery and cordial triumph
they gave him. His own and his family friends
surrounded him. Others joined rapidly, for the
general was not to be denied — and it was by
more than an average-sized crowd that he was
finally swept into the bar. They drank up his

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 29

news, and other things, and they continued to do
so all afternoon.

Perhaps that was partly the trouble. Perhaps
the afternoon and the other things had been a
little too long. About four o’clock the colonel
began to feel weary and to remember things which
those about him could not see. He began to feel
aloof from them, a bit irritable. He began to
answer their innumerable questions honestly, even
literally. Many of them, he could see, were shocked
at this and didn’t like it. Ferocious proposals no
longer seemed funny even to those who made
them. The room became slightly hushed. He
began to tell them what he really thought of the
war.

“A victory for any side is a defeat for every
side now,” the colonel heard himself saying. “It
has all gone on so long . . .” His voice trailed
away.

Above the eagles on his shoulders his face looked
out not a little haggard after so many campaigns.
To several there seemed to be a strange contra-
diction there. Again there was an awkward silence.

“Copperhead!” said someone suddenly.

A young fellow by the name of Mol tan, who had
just received a commission from Governor Curtin
in the lately reorganized State Fencibles, put his
hand to his mouth and turned a brick-red. He
had not really meant to insult the colonel. He

3 °

ACTION AT AQUILA

was proud of his new uniform. The epithet had
slipped out because he felt and wanted to be
conspicuous. But the colonel had not seen his
gesture of embarrassment. He looked about him,
bewildered. He mistook the embarrassment he
saw in the other faces for hostility.

“No, no,” he cried in indignant denial. “No,
I’m a strong Union man. Why, that’s all I’ve
been fighting for! Can’t you see that?”

It was now that young Moltan surpassed himself.
“I can’t say that I do, sir,” he said.

The colonel stepped forward, his eyes blazing.

“ Gentlemen, gentlemen,” cried Mr. Arthur
Biddle, hurrying to them across the room. “This
must go no further!”

“Young man, you’re an ass,” rumbled old
General Fithian indignantly. “You’ve insulted a
brave warrior and your superior officer in a club
where you’re not a member. You’ll apologize to
him now.”

“Or get out,” added Mr. Biddle.

But to do him justice, young Moltan did
apologize, and quite contritely, while the colonel
tried to be as decent about it as he could.
Nevertheless, he was greatly shaken. That any-
body — that even a tipsy young fool should have
called him a Copperhead seemed incredible.

The crowd finally broke up uneasily, trying to
make the best of the matter. Most of them shook

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 31

hands and departed. But some of them didn’t.
There would be considerable talk about the
incident, the colonel was sure. Feeling distinctly
miserable, he went into a corner with General
Fithian and old Dr. David Craig and sat down.

“I can’t understand it,” he said.

“Well, it’s natural enough,” rumbled the general,
who was always willing to precede the angels.
“You see, the trouble with you, my boy, is that
you haven’t been home for years and you think
people still feel the same as they did when you
left us in ’sixty-one. Why, as a matter of fact, you
talk more like the summer of ’fifty-nine!”

“Yes,” agreed the doctor, “Fithian is right.
The feeling now is more intense than you can
imagine, after just serving in the army. If you
think the men are bitter, you ought to hear the
women. You’re not a married man, you know,
so you don’t catch what’s really going on. What
the feeling is. Thousands of people have lost
husbands, brothers, or sons. There’s Andersonville
and Libby. This city is full of wounded and
crippled from a hundred battles. Our ships are
destroyed. If anybody in Pennsylvania cherished
a secret warmth for old Virginia friends, believe
me, after Lee’s invasion and Gettysburg they were
cured of it. The feeling is more intense now in
this state than it is in New England. To put it
mildly, Nathaniel, you can’t expect folks here to

32 ACTION AT AQUILA

understand, your sympathy for the suffering of
the Southern people. They are too much pre-
occupied and exasperated by their own terrible
losses and anxiety not to hurrah for the sternest
kind of suggestions for reprisal. It’s natural. It’s
human nature. Can’t you see?”

“That’s right,” said the old general, nodding
vigorously.

“But I still maintain we’re all one people,”
replied the colonel quietly after a moment’s
silence. “That’s the reason I’m a Union man.”

“It’s too fine a point to be understood now,
I’m afraid,” said the doctor sadly. “Cherish your
idea, Nat. I rather admire you for it. But don’t
‘maintain’ it, as you say.”

“No, no,” chimed in the general, “don’t think
of maintaining it. Just let your military record
speak for you. Nobody can argue about that.”

“Well, then,” said the colonel, “I suppose the
rest is silence, and I’ll try to shift by your advice.
But let me tell you both something before we leave.
I want you to understand how I feel about this
matter. You know we’re not just fighting one
war. We’re fighting many. That is, the war is
different to everyone who takes part in it. There’s
a general feeling, but there’s a particular feeling
too. Let me try to give you mine.”

Unconsciously the colonel had lowered his
voice as though what he was about to impart

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 33

was of secret import — and in fact it was. He was
going to reveal some things that haunted him.
The heads of the three drew a little closer, where
they sat alone in a corner of the Union League
Club. The big room was deserted. It was about
five o’clock of a desperately hot afternoon. Outside
on Chestnut Street an occasional dray rumbled
home somnolently over the cobbles. Voices passing
on the sidewalk below the deep windows sounded
tired and subdued.

“Let me tell you some of the things I’ve seen,”
continued the colonel even more confidentially
than before. “It’s all very well to speak of reprisals
and punishment and military necessity, but it’s
quite another thing to have to carry them out
personally. You know Sheridan has been destroy-
ing the Valley — everything — and the Pennsylvania
cavalry has had quite a lot of house burnings on
its hands. Did you ever burn a house while the
family watched? You feel brave and noble, of
course. Well, near a little cross-corners called
Aquila — there’s nothing left there but a stone
springhouse now — there was a fellow named
Crittendon had a nice big house. White pillars
and - all that. Nothing fancy either. Just a fine,
comfortable American home. Now, I got specific
orders to burn it and clean out the whole plantation.
Crittendon, it seems, was a major in the rebel army
on Early’s staff and a damned troublesome fellow
Ca

34 ACTION AT AQUILA

to the United States government. So we started
off on z.' swift ride one night, hoping to catch him
at home. We got there an hour after dawn, thanks
to a burned bridge, and he’d gone. But Mrs.
Crittendon was there. She was sitting on the front
porch in a long white bedgown. She’s an English-
woman. She looked like a Greek statue when she
stood up to meet us, and she said, ‘ Good morning,
gentlemen!’”

“That was sort of taking advantage of you,
wasn’t it?” mused the doctor almost inaudibly.

“Exactly,” said the colonel. “If she had screamed
or gone into hysterics like most of ’em do, you know,
or cursed us out lock, stock, and barrel! But she
didn’t. She just trembled a little like a fine straight
tree — and looked down at us squirrels.”

“Well, what did you say?” demanded old General
Fithian, shifting his cud intensely.

“What does a gentleman say when he comes to
burn a lady’s house down? I distinguished myself,
of course. I began by saying it was very early.”

“Splendid!” said the doctor. “That must have
made everything all right.”

“ — And that I was under the unfortunate
necessity of burning the house down,” continued
the colonel. He lit a cigar the doctor offered him,
and went on.

“She didn’t try to argue. ‘I presume you will
first permit me to remove the people within,

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 35

colonel, — and our clothes?’ was all she asked. I
gave her half an hour. She thanked me, without
being sarcastic, and went in. I heard her give a dry-
sob at the door.

“My, there were a lot of people in that house!
Some of them started to scream and carry on, but
I could hear Mrs. Crittendon put an end to that.
The first person that came out was an old lady,
Major Crittenden’s mother. She was carried on a
mattress by some of the servants. It seems she’s
paralysed from the waist down. But she isn’t
paralysed from the chin up, let me say. She simply
curled my hair. The troop was lined up before the
porch, just as we’d ridden in, and they all heard
her.”

“What’d she say?” demanded the irrepressible
general.

“She introduced herself. She began by saying
she was a great-grandniece of Madam Washington,
and that even Y ankee pedlars might understand that.
Then she saw or heard we were Pennsylvanians and
she apologized for having called us Yankees.
‘But you’re only one peg up from the mud sills
at that,’ she said, and mentioned that the Penn-
sylvania farmers had let General W ashington
and his men starve at Valley Forge because the
British gave them better prices for supplies at
Philadelphia in ’seventy-eight. And that we hadn’t
changed any since, because she knew that when

36 ACTION AT A Q, TULA

Robert Lee had gone into Pennsylvania the same
farmers sold well water on hot days to his men.
‘But, sir,’ said she, ‘they charged their own men
more even on cool days. Honesty is the best policy.
Colonel Franklin. You remember? Policy is all
you know of honesty. How much are you going to
charge us for burning the house down?’ The rest
was just pure, amber-coloured invective straight
from the soul with a few old-fashioned oaths
embedded in it like extinct flies. At last she had
herself carried off to a knoll where she could
watch the house burn down.

“By that time the babies were coming out
crying, with their broken dolls, and toy horses, and
things — which, of course, made us all feel like big,
brave soldiers. Mrs. Crittendon lined them up some
way back on the lawn with the blacks, who were
trying to start hymns that she kept hushing. Finally
they all seemed to be out. In fact, she nodded to me.
So I took a couple of non-coms into the house with
me and we got out our locofocos. We set fire to the
curtains in the parlour. They were of some heavy
English stuff. Mrs. Crittendon’s wedding gifts, I
imagine. Anyway, they flared up suddenly and then
smouldered on with a kind of blinding smudge. It
looked as though the whole house were on fire,
although really nothing else had caught, when I
heard Mrs. Crittendon calling frantically :

“‘Margaret, Margaret, where’s Margaret?’

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 37

“ We ran out, of course. Mrs. Crittendon wasn’t
calm any longer. ‘It’s my daughter,’ she said. ‘She
must have stayed in the house. I thought we were
all out.’ She tried to go back herself, but just then
Margaret ran out of the smoking doorway and
stood on the porch. She must have delayed to put
on her best things to save them, for she was dressed
in the most elegant finery I ever saw: hoop-skirt,
bonnet, lace dress, and ruffled pantalettes; she
even had a little parasol. Another bright silk dress
was thrown over one arm. She’s about fifteen and
one of the loveliest little girls you can well imagine.
She took in everything at a glance and threw her
extra dress out on the lawn for one of the blacks to
pick up. Then she stamped her foot like a little
empress and just yelled at us:

“ ‘ If there’s one gentleman left in the Old Army
he’ll come in and help me put that fire out.’ And
with that she dived back into the smoke and started
to pull down the burning curtains.

“Her mother screamed at her that she’d catch
afire in her lace dress. And she certainly would
have. But half the troop was out of the saddle and
we were all stamping out the fire and carrying the
girl out to her mother before Mrs. Crittendon
could get to her. The young minx had the gall to
thank us, too. Afterwards, out on the lawn.

“ It’s very difficult for me to tell you in so many
words just how intense the excitement was on the

38 ACTION AT A %U I L A

lawn after young Margaret’s rescue. The slaves
burst out singing. You know how darkies can put
into song what we only feel. And they were certainly
doing it that morning. Mrs. Crittendon couldn’t
stop them. She tried at first to hush that dirgelike
singing. But I think it’s to her credit to say that she
finally broke down herself, and coming over to me,
put her hands on my saddle and begged me as a
Christian and a gentleman not to set fire to the
house again. Now can you really imagine what it
actually is like to have a charming and noble
woman looking up into your face with tears in her
eyes, asking you please not to make her and the
children homeless, when you know she is helpless?
Orders are orders, of course, but there was Mrs.
Crittendon!” The colonel paused a moment as if
the memory of that morning were overpowering.

“Oh, yes,” said Dr. Craig, “I can imagine it all
right!” The general cleared his throat uncom-
fortably. The colonel plunged on.

“It was perfectly plain the men were sick of that
kind of soldiering too,” he said. “They kept
watching me and Mrs. Crittendon. By that time
Margaret had come over to help her mother. The
tension grew until even the horses got restless.
The men let them have their heads, I suppose.
Everyone wanted to be up and away and done
with the mess. I couldn’t blame them. Well, the
lady begged me, and so did the young girl, and ...”

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 39

“And so, of course, as a gallant man, you went
right in and set the house afire again,” suggested
the doctor in a low tone.

There was a pause.

“Yes,” said the colonel, looking miserable, “ I did.”

“What! what! Do you mean to tell me, Nat
Franklin, you had the devilish crust to? The devil
you did! Your father would never — no, sir,” said
the old general, pounding the floor with his cane,
“never, sir!”

“Oh, it wasn’t quite so bad as you think,” con-
tinued the colonel. “No, we didn’t just go in and
start the fire up again. You know I couldn’t! I
advised Mrs. Crittendon to clear out as soon as she
could with her stuff and her people, ‘because,’
said I, ‘the next time, you know.’

“‘Yes,’ said she, ‘I know,’ and she broke down
again.

“Then one of the babies with nothing on but a
short night-shirt toddled up with a rag doll. He
wanted to give it to ‘the nice man.’ That was me!

“‘Come on, sergeant, we’re licked,’ was all I
could say. ‘Ride ’em off.’

“So we just rode away without looking back and
went into camp a few miles higher up the Valley
near a village called Aquila. We burned Aquila
out. There wasn’t anybody there. Everything went
but a springhouse a little detached from the town.
Springhouses don’t catch well, you know.”

40 ACTION AT AOUILA

“It’s the dampness, I suppose,” suggested the
doctor dryly. “But look here, Franklin, murder
will out. What happened to the Crittendons?”

“Well, we were just settled for supper, vedettes
out up the Valley, and the rest of us gathered about
the fires. The boys were frying their hard-tack in
bacon grease, which is against medical orders, of
course — when in rides General Phil Sheridan and
his hard-bitten staff.

“There’d been a devil of a ruction over at Cross
Keys that day. A couple of wagon trains had been
cut out and looted and burned by Early, and the
general was tearing mad. It meant some weeks’
delay in operations in the upper Valley. He didn’t
say much, which is a bad sign. He’s usually good
enough company. But he did order the men to
dump their greasy bread on the fires and turn in
on dry tack and water. There was a good deal of
muffled swearing under the blankets as a conse-
quence. And I think the general felt quite uncom-
fortable about that. Anyway, he borrowed some of
my whisky and finished it all off himself, looking
into a fire as moody as you please. Then he ordered
me to turn out ten troopers and to accompany him
and his staff. He was riding back to Winchester
that night, he said. It looked as though he might
be relieving me of command. We started. After a
few miles the word was passed for me to join the
general. We rode in the darkness for some time.

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 41

‘“Look here, Colonel Nat,’ said he suddenly,
‘didn’t you get orders to burn out the Crittendon
people today?’

“‘I did, general!’ I had to say that, of course. ‘I
set fire to the Crittendon house at six-fifteen o’clock
this morning.’

“‘And put it out at six- twenty-five same date.’

“I couldn’t deny it.

‘“Now look here, Franklin,’ he went on after a
little, ‘ I’m an Irishman, even if I was born in old
York State, and I never borrow whisky from an
officer I’m goin’ to court-martial. But orders are
orders. I know this is a specially hard case: fine
people! You’ve made it even harder now. But we
can’t go into that kind of thing. As a matter of
fact, I’ve been easy on you. We both saw some
Indian fighting in the West, so I’ve put you on
reconnaissance almost entirely and relieved you
so far of most of the dirty work. I’ve used your
regiment for scouting and turned the harrying, and
horse and house thieving over to Reinohlfennig and
his bummers. Those Pennsylvania Dutch can only
ride farm horses anyway. They’re locusts ; you’re
cavalry. When you get an order after this, no
flinching. Begad, man, do you think I like it any
better than you do?

“ ‘Burn the house tonight without touching
anything,’ he finally said. ‘ Without touching any-
thing,’ he repeated. ‘Is that plain? That’s all.’

42 ACTION AT AQUILA

“I saluted and fell back with my own men. To
tell the truth I was pretty angry myself. He might
have court-marti ailed me for disobedience of orders
that morning, but to bring me back to burn the
house and insinuate that we weren’t to carry any-
thing away! Just like saying, ‘Don’t carry off any
cuckoo clocks or jewellery,’ you know. That had
me boiling, even if he is half an Irishman.

“When we got to the Crittendon house again
there was a squadron of regulars bivouacked on the
lawn, and the lamps in the house were lit. Sheridan
gave a brief order and the squadron broke camp
instantly and assembled mounted and at attention
before the veranda.

“‘Colonel, send your own men to the woodpiles.
Have them get pine knots, light them, and fall in
by the porch here.’

“Then he had the officers assemble, and all of
us, with his staff, went into the house.

“I was terribly relieved to find that no one was
there. Mrs. Crittendon must have taken my advice
and left that morning with her people. We went into
the big parlour, where there was a portrait of a Con-
tinental officer over the fireplace, and a lot of candles
burning. It was some moments before I noticed that
on a couch in one of the alcoves there was a body
covered by a tattered Confederate battle-flag.

“‘Gentlemen,’ said General Sheridan, ‘I am
asking your assistance here in a personal matter.’

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 43

“He took a candlestick, went into the dark alcove,
and pulled the flag down from the face of the form
lying there. The strong, bearded countenance of a
handsome man, whose hair was prematurely grey,
was revealed in the yellow candlelight. He looked
peculiarly waxen. His eyes were wide open and the
collar of his grey uniform with tarnished gold leaves
on it supported his chin.

“‘This was Major Douglas Charles Crittendonof
the Confederate Army/ said General Sheridan. ‘ He
was killed in the attack at Cross Keys this afternoon.
Before he died I had time for a too-brief talk with
him. He was an intimate classmate of mine at West
Point. For many years he was an officer in the
Old Army. He once commanded the squadron of
U. S. Cavalry now lined up before his door. What
I’m doing here is by his own dying request made
this afternoon. He was most particular, and I gave
him my word “to bury him in the ashes of his
home.” I realize now that he must have thought this
house had already been burned. If there is anything
in this proceeding which offends the principles of
anyone present he is at liberty to withdraw.’

“No one made a move. In fact, we all stood
completely awe-struck; some of us were overcome.
General Sheridan paused for a moment, then laid
the flag back on his friend’s face.

“ ‘ Will the new officers of the major’s old regiment
lend me a hand?’ he said.

44 ACTION AT AQUILA

“The general and some of the young lieutenants
from the troop outside then lifted the couch, upon
which the major lay, out into the middle of the
room, under the eyes of the portrait. They piled
fire-wood about it. We all helped in that.

“T would like to have the guidon of the troop,’
said the general.

“After a moment it was brought in to him.

“‘This is my own idea,’ he said. ‘I think Douglas
. . . er — Major Crittendon will approve.’ His
voice was a little husky. He put the silk guidon on
the breast of the flag-draped man on the couch.
Upon that he laid the major’s sword.

“‘I am sorry there is no priest here,’ he said.
‘ Major Crittendon was the soul of honour, a true
friend. A very gallant gentleman lies here . . . ’
He was unable to go on. ‘God receive his stricken
soul,’ he managed to add finally. We said ‘ Amen ’
and trooped out of the room awkwardly enough.
The empty house echoed with our heavy boots
and the jingle of spurs.

“Outside the glare of the pine torches beat the
darkness back for a space, wavering over the men
and horses before the door.

“Sheridan stopped me for a moment on the porch
and said, ‘Franklin, you will be in charge in this
neighbourhood for some time. Mrs. Crittendon
must be in hiding hereabouts. We heard she left
early this morning with her family and some

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 45

wagons. Find her if you can. Do what you can
for her. And give her this.’ He gave me a small
sealed package. ‘And,’ he said as he laid his hand
on my arm, ‘tell her that Phil Sheridan burned
her house by a special order from Washington
signed by the Secretary of War. If you can’t find
Mrs. Crittendon, see that the package is returned
to me. These are bad times to live through. It’s
hard even for a soldier to tell what his duty is.
Don’t you find it so sometimes?’ He smiled sadly
and extended his hand.

“‘Yes, sir, I do,’ I said, and we shook hands
warmly. That was all.

“He mounted his horse in the glare of the torches
and brought the troop to present.

“ ‘ Colonel,’ he said, ‘carry out your orders.’
Then they moved off at a rapid trot down the
drive.

“That was a great burning. For miles the whole
Valley leaped with light. The house was of pitch
pine a century old. It made a great column of
golden fire. Behind it the gloomy wall of the Blue
Ridge towered up into heaven, watching the sparks
drift out among the stars.”

The spell of the colonel’s deep but pleasant voice
seemed to his rapt listeners to have been withdrawn
too abruptly. Outside the street window, by which
they sat, the head and shoulders of a lamplighter
appeared suddenly and with startling clearness on

46 ACTION AT AQUILA

his ladder as he cupped the white spurt of a match
in his glowing hands.

“Lord,” said the colonel, “is it as late as that?
I apologize profoundly. Keeping you fellows from
supper! It’s not to be forgiven.”

“Nonsense, nobody’s going to be late for supper,”
said Dr. Craig, jumping up and brushing the cigar
ashes off his vest and long coat; “you’re coming
home with me. I’m a widower, and I have meals
when I want them. I keep a cook from the Eastern
Shore. There’ll be pepper pot and reed birds in
butter. A very famous patient of mine has sent me
some of the port that he’s famous for. Nat, I’ll bet
you haven’t had a meal like that in months.”

“Not for years,” said the colonel. “It sounds like
— like eighteen-fifty-nine . ’ ’

General Fithian groaned, however, and began
to roll his eyes. “Craig,” said he, “this is a damned
outrage.” He pounded his cane on the floor. “Ten
days ago you put me on a diet of vegetables and
milk toast. Am I supposed to go and just watch
you two eat reed birds and things?”

“Tonight,” said the doctor, “I’ll permit you to
relapse. You can take an extra five grains of calomel
before going to bed.”

“By God, I’m going to that homoeopath in
Camden,” bumbled the general.

They went out and caught an accommodation
stage for Spring Garden Street. On the way up Dr.

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 47

Craig kept his two military friends and the much-
amused civilian passengers, all gentlemen in plug
hats and paper collars, in a constant gale of
laughter by dictating to an imaginary druggist
prescriptions in dog Latin for the cure of delicate
complaints.

The memory of that evening’s dinner at Dr.
Craig’s “perfect little residence” remained long in
the colonel’s mind as the outstanding evening of his
furlough. It was a return in spirit to the urbanity
and security of the time before the war. For, once
ensconced in the doctor’s old wainscoted dining-
room under the new gas chandelier, with cool airs
drifting in through the wide casement, — breezes
from the doctor’s back garden and the valley of the
Wissahickon, laden with the remote odour of new-
mown hay-fields and the domestic scent of house
geraniums, — once ensconced there, with the present
walled out, as it were, the clock on the stairs seemed
by some magic of reversal to be ticking its way again
through the serene hours of its grandfather past.

Gone were the high-keyed expectancy, the
waiting for news, the nervous talk, and the taut,
secret apprehensions of wartime. Out of the ken
of the colonel’s consciousness, into a kind oblivion,
drifted involuntary visions of three years of angry
battles; glimpses of red cannon lighting the clouds
of midnight; half-heard cries of nervous sentinels
and eerie night-birds along the dark shores of the

48 ACTION AT AQUILA

embattled Potomac; the sinister glow in the sky of
rebel camp-fires beyond the mountains, and the
scene at twilight of the huddled wave of dead
splashed along the stone wall of Marye’s Heights.

Instead, there was the doctor, leaning back in
his chair with one thumb easing the tension of his
vest, and talking — relating wise, kindly, and humor-
ous anecdotes of nearly half a century of practice.
The healing quality of his healing personality
seemed to pervade the room with a kind of merciful
ribaldry of comment and his irrepressible hope and
amusement at the vagaries of man.

And there, too, was General Jack Fithian, the
best purveyor of self-appreciative laughter in
Philadelphia, ruddy with port and good-nature;
delighted to have an audience for his tales of the
Mexican War.

It was curious how that war no longer seemed to
be a war at all. No one had died in it. The very
names of its battles were now a simple poetry with-
out bloodshed : Palo Alto, Buena Vista, Cerro
Gordo, and Chapul tepee; from the wine-red lips
of the old general they fell like single notes chimed
on a carillon of romance. It was as though he had
just taken his silver knife and struck lightly the
half-filled glasses before him.

Was it possible, mused the colonel, was it possible
that the grim annals of the battles in Virginia,
along the Potomac, and in the Shenandoah could

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 49

also become by future telling a mere mellifluous
tale like that?

Yes, it was possible.

Perhaps it was a quality of prophetic insight
imbibed with the doctor’s port that murmured to
him, “That, too, shall come to pass”: Manassas,
Malvern Hill, Antietam, and Fredericksburg —
New Market, Winchester, and Monocacy — how
they would sound, tinkling in the pages of history,
after the necessary scar-tissue of forgetfulness had
closed the wounds of time.

Suddenly the sullen and angry face of the boy
who had called him Copperhead that afternoon
seemed to be looking at the colonel again. He
watched the passionate young features fade slowly
into the cigar smoke.

How men felt — that was what would be forgotten!

He stirred uneasily; the room and its pleasant
atmosphere resumed again. But he was no longer
lost in the past. While Dr. Craig and the general
talked, he had come to a sudden decision. It was
something so impulsive that it seemed to have been
decided for him. Now he knew how he was going
to spend the remaining weeks of his leave. And it
was because of that decision that he turned the talk
to horses.

He wanted a new horse. The finest horse there
was to be had in Philadelphia. His pockets were
bursting with greenbacks from his unspent back

Da

50 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

pay — an d good horses in Philadelphia were still to
be had. Weren’t they?

“Yes, indeed.” Dr. Craig knew of a wonderful
horse that belonged to a patient of his who had just
died.

“He’s probably had his eye on that horse all
along,” suggested Fithian. “Now, I have a fine
animal myself. Do you know, Craig, I think I’ll
omit that extra calomel tonight. Listening to you
and Nat horse-trading in your deceased patient’s
chattels makes me nervous. There, there, I’m sure
you can get that horse cheap, colonel, as the doctor
says. And he ought to know. He’s probably taking
it for his bill for the man’s death. But I’d look at that
horse’s teeth closely.”

“Confound you!” roared the doctor. “It’s a
magnificent animal, I say! And it’s time for you to
go to bed — and take your calomel.”

“ I won’t,” said the general, but he did.

The old-fashioned host saw both his guests to the
doors of their bedrooms, with a candle. He struggled
with the general over his calomel, and he lingered
for some moments at the colonel’s door in a kind of
benevolent good-night chat.

“ . . . I didn’t want to remind you of it in the
dining-room tonight,” said he, “but if you don’t
mind I’m still curious about something you told us
this afternoon. Did you by any chance ever deliver
that package Sheridan gave you to Mrs. Crittendon?”

THE CITY OF BROTHERLY LOVE 51

“No,” said the colonel, who was seated on the
bed trying to draw off his boots. “No, I didn’t. We
made a thorough search of all that part of the
Valley, but Mrs. Grittendon and her family seemed
to have vanished into thin air. I can’t even pick
up a rumour of where they went. I was going to
return the package to Sheridan at headquarters.
In fact, I had it with me when I left, but a curious
thing happened on the way up. You remember
that springhouse at Aquila that I said wouldn’t
burn?”

The doctor nodded.

“ Well, I stopped in there to give the nag a good
drink just after I left camp and the Grittendon
children had evidently been playing in it. It was
full of a few toys they’d saved and dolls made out
of corncobs, some broken dishes on an old stone
set for a sort of elfin feast with wild cherry seeds
and chinquapins. You know how children, little
girls, furnish a dolls’ house — pretty pitiable, too.
The war seemed to have lost most of their toys for
them — and it was so furtive and secret in that
half-dark place. It’s a shame the infants can’t even
play house, you know!”

“Yes, but how did you know it was the
Crittendons ? ”

“Oh,” said the colonel, “I felt sure I recognized
the rag doll the child brought me the morning we
tried to burn the house — it had only one eye.”

52 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Ah, I remember; ‘nice man,’ eh?” said the
doctor, smiling. He paused a moment, peering at
the colonel as though he liked to see him in the
room. “Well, nice man, good-night to you,” said
Dr. Craig a little ironically, and went off down the
hall with his candle, leaving the colonel with one
boot on, still sitting on the bed.

In his room Dr. Craig undressed rapidly, from
long habit laying his clothes out in a precise manner
on an old green chair. He could find them in the
dark that way and dress instantly if he were called.
He put on a long, almost unearthly, night-shirt
that fell from neck to heel, and, although it was a
warm night, a stocking-shaped, flannel night-cap.
Thus attired, he sat on the big bed looking somewhat
like a dunce. After a while from under the pillow
he drew a photograph and sat staring at it. It was
the picture of a young man in his early twenties
and first moustache, in the uniform of a surgeon
of the Union Army. Beads of moisture stood out on
the doctor’s forehead. Probably it was the night-
cap. Presently they coursed down the furrows of
his wise and foolish old face. “Murdered,” said he,
“murdered,” and drew his sleeve rapidly across his
eyes. He put the picture of his only son back under
the pillow and blew out the candle.

CHAPTER II

“HURRAH! BOYS, HURRAH!*’

Next morning, dr. craig and the
colonel drove out the Doylestown Road a way
and bought the horse. It was a beauty, a black
mare with three white socks and a fine, small head.
Her neck arched like an Arab’s and she stepped high.
They returned to Spring Garden Street, and the
colonel spent an hour trying out his new mount’s
paces, and breaking her in to the army bit and
saddle before the doctor’s door.

It was a spirited moment of good horsemanship.

Under the tracery of maple boughs that met over
the old-fashioned street, the colonel raced back
and forth, turning and wheeling, a golden stir of
autumn leaves whirling about his horse’s legs. The
neighbours came out to see. One of them, a young
boy from North Seventh Street, never forgot that
morning nor the figure of the tall, dark man with
flowing burnsides who rode by him with creaking
leather and slapping sword. The campaign hat
with bright golden cord and acorns, the long blue
coat and glittering buttons, the man motionless in
the saddle of the galloping black horse, were photo-
graphed on the boy’s memory. Thirty-four years

54 ACTION AT A Q, TULA

later he was still, secretly, “being like Colonel
Franklin” when he rode forth at the head of his
own regiment for the Spanish War.

But no one on Spring Garden Street was tall
enough that morning to peep onto the knees of the
gods. The colonel bade his friends good-bye. That
is to say, he jumped down and clasped to his breast
old Dr. Craig, who had brought him into this world,
and he nearly had his right hand crippled by old
General Jack, who “blubbed” then and there.

“I’ll see you both after it’s over,” cried the
colonel cheerily. “And when I come back, there’s
to be a dinner at Kennett Square. Will you come?”
he shouted.

“Aye!” they called, half speechless.

But they never came. Peace has its casualties as
well as war — and two old men standing on a white
Philadelphia doorstep, their faces mottled by
the leafy sunlight, made the last glimpse Colonel
Franklin ever had of Dr. Craig and General
Fithian.

“Go and see Buchanan at ‘Wheatland,’” roared
the doctor as the colonel wheeled to wave the last
time. “He’s lonely as I am.”

“By Jove, I will,” said the colonel to himself.
“I suppose everybody’s forgotten Buchanan” —
and he trotted off down Walnut Street, bound on
the most peaceful of errands. For it was before a
toy-shop six blocks below Broad Street that he

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!’’ 55

finally tethered his war horse. “Now,” said he, “I’ll
get ’em.” And he did.

No colonel in the United States Army, perhaps,
had ever filled his haversack quite like that. When
Colonel Franklin emerged from the shop and
slung it over his saddle, besides some spare clothes
now used for safe packing only, the haversack
contained no less than six dolls most elegantly
attired, a small, a very small, suite of doll furniture,
and a set of dainty china dishes that might have
been used at a banquet for the Queen of Mice.
Thus armed to the teeth, the colonel turned his
horse back towards Broad Street and prepared,
with secret amusement, to swagger his way out of
Philadelphia with pardonable military pride.

But he was not to get out of the city so easily as
that. Drums began to beat.

The white man’s beating of drums is not to be
approached by that of any other race. Compared
with it, the much-vaunted negro tom-tom and
hand-jar sound a mere nervous irritant, a kind of
fumbling hypnosis. Two-four time is a suggestion
for a man to walk; for many men to walk together
to a given end. Beat a drum in march time and it
becomes the voice of a god roaring, “go and do.”
Like real thunder, the thunder of drums becomes the
voice of lightning, but it rolls before. It is a warning
that something is about to be riven from leaf to
root.

56 ACTION AT AQUILA

Thunder like that, such an enormous music, was
loose in Philadelphia the morning that Colonel
Franklin was riding up Walnut Street. He had gone
only a couple of blocks from the toy-shop when his
horse began to dance, fret, and jiggle to the pulsation
of drums. He worked Black Girl into a blind arch-
way so that people might keep clear of her dancing
heels. In that way he had quite a space to him self,
and he could look clear over the heads of the
crowd. Four blocks away, around the corner
from Broad Street, wheeled the cause of tumult,
the drums at the head of a regiment marching
out to war.

Philadelphia is a contented town. It is situated on
a river flat and most of the time breathes heavy,
valley air a little more than tranquilly. But occa-
sionally, especially in the fall, the keen atmosphere
from the mountains slips into the village of William
Penn. Then everything is preternaturally clear and
suddenly electric. There is a positively Vichy-like
quality to the air, and to a Philadelphian that is
intoxicating. On such autumn mornings, Quaker
housewives from a sense of inner, and perhaps
spiritual, excitement have even been known, inad-
vertently, to scrub their doorsteps twice.

It was such a morning in late September when
the State Fencibles left for the South. Grant had
called for them. The iron machine that was slowly
contracting about Richmond needed spare parts.

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!” 57
And the weather being electric, Philadelphia
muttered with thunder.

They came marching down Walnut Street
toward the ferry, preceded by drums, drums, drums .
It was a national election year, and a great banner
was stretched across Walnut Street. At one end of
it there was a portrait of a bearded man, “Lincoln ” ;
at the other, a picture apparently of the same man
without a beard, “Johnson.”

' Our Candidates
REPUBLICAN
Vote National Union

THAT GOVERNMENT OF THE PEOPLE BY THE PEOPLE
FOR THE PEOPLE SHALL NOT PERISH FROM THE EARTH

Under this “arch” suddenly appeared flags, taut
in the breeze, a hedge of flashing bayonets, and
wide lines of marching men in blue, rolling the
dust before them.

The crowd formed like magic. Buses and drays
drew hastily to one side. Out of a thousand shops
and houses poured the sober population of Phila-
delphia, exalted with excitement. As the drums
passed along between the teeming sidewalks, they
peeled off the last intellectual queries, the petty
personal reservations even from cold doubters, like
a strip of thin hide. The mind darkened to let the
heart burn more furiously. The deep substratum of

58 ACTION AT AQUII.A

common feeling by which a nation lives was revealed
and laid bare to the quick, quivering. Bugles and
screaming fifes joined in with the drums :

“The Union forever,

Hurrah ! boys. Hurrah!”

The people knew those words; they knew what the
words meant. An eerie folk-singing ran down
the street. A high-tension current streaked down the
sidewalks, welding the crowd into one thing,
jumping the gaps from block to block.

“ Down with the traitor,

Up with the star ...”

At Ninth Street, an old gentleman in archaically
tight trousers who had once seen Washington drive
to the State House, fell down and died in a fit.
There was no waving of dainty handkerchiefs to
“departing cavaliers.” There were oaths, screams,
the violent weeping of hysterical women in black
bombazine, roars — and that high-pitched patriotic
singing that gradually mounted in intensity:

“ While we rally ’round the flag, boys,

Rally once again,

Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom ! ”

And how they shouted. For once the whole vast,
patient city uttered itself with one voice.

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!” 59

About the colonel the excitement was peculiarly
intense and enhanced by a constant flurry in the
crowd. This was partly due to the dangerous
dancing of the colonel’s mare, and the fact that,
by a natural mistake, most of the spectators thought
that the colonel was stationed there to review the
departing regiment. Many kept trying to press
in upon him. They could see by his weathered
uniform that he was a veteran, and of high rank.

Personally, the colonel would rather not have
been there. He towered conspicuously above the
crowd, which was uncomfortable to a man of his
temperament, and to him the sight of a regiment
going to the front was bound to be painful. He knew
only too well what their final destination was. But
as the column of marching men drew rapidly nearer,
he forget all that. That is to say, he forgot himself.

He was swept by the overpowering feeling that
surged down the street. His horse suddenly stood
still and trembled. As though from the current of a
battery, that trembling was transmitted to the body
of the man. As the drums passed before him, the
baton of the drum-major flashed high out of the
shadow of the houses, twinkled in the upper sun-
light, and streaked back to the drum-major’s hand
again. Black Girl neighed and shook the foam from
her bridle. A hot blast of bugles tossed the air.
Just in front of him a servant-girl with red arms and
a dirty apron started to whinny. A large, dignified

58 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

common feeling by which a nation lives was revealed
and laid bare to the quick, quivering. Bugles and
screaming fifes joined in with the drums:

“The Union forever,

Hurrah ! boys. Hurrah!”

The people knew those words; they knew what the
words meant. An eerie folk-singing ran down
the street. A high-tension current streaked down the
sidewalks, welding the crowd into one thing,
jumping the gaps from block to block.

“Down with the traitor,

Up with the star ...”

At Ninth Street, an old gentleman in archaically
tight trousers who had once seen Washington drive
to the State House, fell down and died in a fit.
There was no waving of dainty handkerchiefs to
“departing cavaliers.” There were oaths, screams,
the violent weeping of hysterical women in black
bombazine, roars — and that high-pitched patriotic
singing that giadually mounted in intensity:

“ While we rally ’round the flag, boys,

Rally once again,

Shouting the battle-cry of Freedom!”

And how they shouted. For once the whole vast,
patient city uttered itself with one voice.

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!” 59

About the colonel the excitement was peculiarly
intense and enhanced by a constant flurry in the
crowd. This was partly due to the dangerous
dancing of the colonel’s mare, and the fact that,
by a natural mistake, most of the spectators thought
that the colonel was stationed there to review the
departing regiment. Many kept trying to press
in upon him. They could see by his weathered
uniform that he was a veteran, and of high rank.

Personally, the colonel would rather not have
been there. He towered conspicuously above the
crowd, which was uncomfortable to a man of his
temperament, and to him the sight of a regiment
going to the front was bound to be painful. He knew
only too well what their final destination was. But
as the column of marching men drew rapidly nearer,
he forget all that. That is to say, he forgot himself.

He was swept by the overpowering feeling that
surged down the street. His horse suddenly stood
still and trembled. As though from the current of a
battery, that trembling was transmitted to the body
of the man. As the drums passed before him, the
baton of the drum-major flashed high out of the
shadow of the houses, twinkled in the upper sun-
light, and streaked back to the drum-major’s hand
again. Black Girl neighed and shook the foam from
her bridle. A hot blast of bugles tossed the air.
Just in front of him a servant-girl with red arms and
a dirty apron started to whinny. A large, dignified

60 ACTION AT AQUILA

woman, who soared, up out; of her vast, flounced
hoop-skirt like a centaur looking out of a tent,
threw her little sunshade into the air and sobbed like
a child at its mother’s funeral. The colonel’s dark face
flushed even darker. He sat as though cast in bronze.

He exchanged salutes with the colonel of the
passing troops, a young man whom he didn’t
know. The faces of the men who followed looked
drawn and chalk-white above their dusty blue
coats. Most of them were older schoolboys. The
tension of the scene they were passing through was
as great as that of battle. They seemed to be
drawn down the street in the current that followed
the maelstrom of drums. They were being rushed off.
Some of them missed step to catch up. A sort of
gasp from the crowd closed in behind them. There
were few dry eyes on the sidewalks. Then the flag
passed, with all the stars still there, and the crowd
went crazy.

The tension was eased by the major of the last
battalion. He was a dusty, determined-looking little
man on a rather sorry horse. He wore his hat over
his eyes and he was smoking a cigar. He didn’t
know it, but he looked like a caricature of General
Grant. The crowd roared at him good-naturedly
and laughed all the more that the little major took
the plaudits for himself.

Smoking on parade, major! thought the colonel.
Dear, dear, what will the regular army say? It’s

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!’’ 6i

only the state militia, only the damned militia that’s
won all the wars the United States has always
nearly lost. “You’ll fill up the ditches for the
generals from West Point on both sides, my lads,”
he said half-aloud. He felt overpowered by a desire
for a cigar himself. “The damned generals!” As
a soldier of the Army of the Potomac he felt bitter
about generals. He rose in his saddle to roar at the
last company — and sank back again. For leading
it, in a pathetically new lieutenant’s uniform, was
the boy who had called him a Copperhead only
yesterday. For some reason he was in command of
the company.

Young Moltan looked up and saw the colonel.
His whole face flushed a painful red. My God! he
thought. Even in this short march from the armoury
to the ferry, he was learning the difference between
wearing a uniform and being a soldier. For the
veteran on the horse he now had nothing but
adoration. In his confusion he forgot to salute. He
took off his hat instead.

The colonel choked. Tears ran down his face.
“God bless you, Moltan, my boy,” he called.
“ Come back, son!” He took off his own hat
and held it to his breast. He waved it benignly
and helplessly after him. With a look of relief and
surprised exaltation, the young man passed on . . .

“You young fool, you, you’ll get yourself killed,”
the colonel kept muttering to himself long after the

62 ACTION AT AQUILA

last files had gone by and the urchins had linked
arms and closed in at the end of the column to
follow the music. An old coloured man from the
Navy Yard, vending hot pepper pot, still kept
bowing and taking off his straw hat again and
again and saying, “Good-bye to you, Mars’
Lincoln’s boys. Good-bye!” A few women in black,
who seemed equally dazed, lingered here and there,
touching their handkerchiefs to their eyes, till a
little whirlwind began to blow dirty newspaper
down the empty street.

Black Girl shied violently at the papers and
brought the colonel to himself. For he, too, had
been, he considered, shamefully overcome. Some-
how that last glimpse of Lieutenant Moltan had
been peculiarly searing. Into the instant of his
passing by had flowed and overflowed all the
terrific emotion of the day. The mind tends to
personify its griefs, and in the person of young
Moltan the colonel had relived all the exaltation
and glory, the proud hopes, and the unexpected
agony and regret of a youth marching off to war.
It was like beholding a vision. The vision remained.
And it was for that reason that he had no recollec-
tion whatever of the aftermath of the procession.

When his horse shied he was still sitting her in a
daze in the blind archway, and the street was all
but empty. Down at the State House he could hear
distant cheering where the speechmaking would

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!” 63

now be going on. Remembering the speeches of
three years ago, he smiled grimly. He was just about
to move off when someone began to pound at his
leg.

He looked down, annoyed and surprised, into the
flushed countenance of a most curious little man.

“An indestructible union of indestructible states,”
cried the little man in a strange, rapt voice. He
ceased pounding the colonel’s leg to emphasize
his proposition, and removed his plug hat. A shiny
and flushed bald head appeared like a dome in the
sunlight. He gave his large beaver a tremendous
flourish and retired a couple of paces like a dancer,
turned, faced the colonel again, and declaimed,
“Destined to endure for ages to come.” He
smacked his hat down over his brows. The dome
disappeared.

“Those, sir,” resumed the little orator, appar-
endy becoming aware of the colonel for the first
time, “are my irrevocable sentiments. You will
recollect the source, eh? John Marshall, a Vir-
ginian, but . . . ”

“ My sentiments, too,” said the colonel, suddenly
reaching down and shaking the little man’s hand.

“Then, sir, I can see there is no point at issue
between us,” cried the litde man, drawing himself
up under his hat. He looked considerably disap-
pointed. “Good day to you, sir,” he rapped out,
and marched up a pair of steps to an office door.

64

ACTION AT AQUILA

CHARLES R. ROSS

Attorney-at-Law

blazed from the brass shingle. The door banged.
Suddenly it opened again.

“And I might add,” roared the little lawyer,
once again hatless, “that it was a late great-aunt of
my family who is alleged to have first conceived
the American flag.” The door closed. Tins time
“irrevocably.”

Colonel Franklin grinned, touched heels to his
horse, and moved on. Black Girl needed exercise.
The city began to fall away behind.

“Charles R. Ross, attorney-at-law,” muttered
the colonel in a kind of illogical day-dream.
“Funny that — why the at ? Why not Nathaniel T.
Franklin, colonel-at-war ? ’ ’ His horse almost shied
onto the sidewalk. He hastily resumed the reins.

Not many hours later he was riding along the
old, dusty Western Pike through the fertile fields
of Lancaster County. The war had never come
here. The rolling landscape, cultivated like one
vast garden and dotted with huge red barns and
stone farmhouses, is one of the most peaceful in
the world.

The afternoon wore away as the miles rolled
behind.

CHAPTER III

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW

“Wh EATLANd” NEAR LANCASTER, the
house of ex-President Buchanan, lay down a long
alley of ancient maples. A prosperous farm, the main
house was surrounded by a space of noble lawn. It
was long after nightfall when the colonel arrived.

The house appeared half-ghostly in a light mist
luminous with twinkling fireflies and the glow of
window lamps. In the dull moonlight it seemed
inordinately sequestered, and the clop of Black
Girl’s hoofs rang in her rider’s ears like the hoof-
beats of some messenger from the present vainly
trying to carry news of battles into the past.

Yesterday , yesterday , yesterday — tapped the feet of
the mare.

As he emerged on the drive the figure of an elderly
man, apparently wrapped in a voluminous bed-
gown, rose from a rocking-chair on the front porch
and disappeared into the darkened hallway.

Buchanan’s old servant, Crawford, met the
colonel at the steps.

“Oh!” said Crawford. “Why, if it isn’t you, Mr.
Nat! Lord, I’d never have known you, you’ve
gotten so thin. And how’s your father, sir?”

Ea

66

ACTION AT AQUILA

“He’s been dead these two years, Crawford,”
said the colonel, a bit nettled despite himself. His
father had been a fairly prominent man.

“No!” said Crawford. “Don’t tell me!” He
sounded more shocked than he need have been.
“But that’s the way it goes here at ‘Wheatland’
nowadays, you know. We don’t hear, sir. I guess
it’s the war. The President never approved of it,
you know. We just don’t get the news often. There’re
not many people come, and when they do — ”
The man made a vague gesture in the dark. “I can
remember when there used to be twenty horses
tied at that bar, sir. Before we went to Washington.”
He sighed an old man’s sigh in the darkness.

Black Girl pawed the gravel impatiently.

“Perhaps,” began the colonel, “I had better
not ...”

“Oh, no,” said the old man. “Excuse me, I
didn’t mean that /”

He came down the steps and took the bridle.
“Don’t think of going! The President would never
forgive me. Your old . . . your father and him,
sir, you remember. And he was alers right fond of
you too when you was a boy. Why, that time you
left for the West he . . . ”

“Yes, I know,” said the colonel, dismounting
wearily. His sabre clashed a little strangely before
the wide, peaceful doorway.

“Every night at supper,” continued Crawford,

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW 67

mounting Black Girl stiffly by way of the horse
block, “the President says, ‘And who’s been here
today?’ And do you know, Mr. Nat, I dasn’t tell
him nobody.” The old man lowered his voice pain-
fully. “I jes’ says to him, I — ”

“Yes, yes, I understand. He must be lonely.”

A window opened upstairs.

“Who’s there?” asked the rather flat voice of
James Buchanan, tired but eager.

“It’s me, Nat Franklin from Kennett Square.”
“What, Young Franklin! Why, step out into the
moonlight where I can see you,” said the ex-
President of the United States, leaning out of his
window in a night-shirt and illogically trying to
illuminate the outdoors with a candle in his hand.
“It’s a boon to have you drop in. How are you?
Where’s your father?”

“ He isn’t able to come, sir.”

“Have you had your supper?” continued the
President. “Crawford, you rascal, where’s Pollock?”
“He’d be at the barn, sir, wouldn’t he?”

“Call him. Have him take Mr. Franklin’s horse
and rub it down. Come in, Nat. Crawford, give Mr.
Franklin the North Room — and something to eat.
Oh, you’re in uniform, aren’t you? What have y’
got on your straps?”

“Buzzards,” said the colonel.

“’Pon my soul!” exclaimed the President.
“Colonel, eh! Well, come in, come in. Damn it,

68 ACTION AT AQUILA

there goes my candle ! ” The white head was with-
drawn but the voice continued. “Ill see you to-
morrow at breakfast. Six o’clock promptly, mind
you. There’s a lot to do here. Have to get up early.”
The window closed.

“Pollock’s been dead a year now come October,”
whispered Crawford. “I’ll take your horse down to
the barn myself. Go upstairs to the big room at the
end of the hall. I’ll be back in a jiffy, sir, and get
you some hot fixin’s.”

Yesterday, yesterday , yesterday — sounded the hoofs
of Black Girl slowly, as she moved off down the
drive with Crawford.

The colonel entered the big house alone. Except for
a lamp on the landing, it was dark and silent. A wind
waved the long white curtains in the moonlit library
listlessly. The colonel waited till Crawford returned
and showed him to his room.The North Room was
tremendous, coldly still and furnished with gigantic
walnut furniture. The bed was monolithic, with urns.
Someone, it seemed, had been trying to make
Cyclops cosy.

The colonel felt tired and slept soundly. But
something woke him towards morning.

The moon was setting and drew long shadows
across the room. Outside, the perpetual controversy
of the katydids suddenly quickened as though at
some instinctive hint of unseen dawn. It quickened
but it also seemed to be tired and thinner, threaten-

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW 69

ing to cease from sheer inertia like a tired
war.

On an elephantine marble washstand in one
corner of the room stood a colossal pitcher. There
were white eagles on it. Even in the dim moonlight
there could be no doubt that the pitcher was
federal. Its eagles screamed silently. Down at
Lancaster a locomotive in the yards kept wailing
to its brakeman. The colonel knew those sounds. A
troop train, no doubt. Some more of Curtin’s
Pennsylvania militia going to the front. He could
tell when the last car was coupled. The train wailed
its way eastward, humming into the night.

He turned on his pillow to resettle himself —
and then he heard the sound that was, he realized,
the background for all the other sounds he had been
listening to, and unconsciously evaluating. It was
even the background for the silence of the house,
for it seemed more eternal than silence.

It was a long, sonorous, and soporific sound. It
seemed at time to strike difficulties like a file in a
board full of nails, but it overcame them and went
on. It rumbled furiously but in meaningless
syllables. Like the ghost of that endless debate in the
federal Senate which forever haunts the halls of the
Republic, it only threatened to cease. And it was
some moments, for he was very sleepy, before the
colonel realized that he had the honour of listen-
ing to the snoring of the man who had come

70 ACTION AT AQUIL A

nearer than anyone else to ruining the United
States.

“Lord,” said the colonel, sitting up suddenly in
the moonlight. “I hope no one ever snores like
that again. Let’s do something about it,” he added,
and gave his pillow a smack. Then smiling a little
grimly he dropped off again.

Next morning Colonel Franklin and the ex-
President took breakfast together. A large urn of
strong coffee, eggs, fried potatoes, small beefsteaks,
buckwheat cakes and maple syrup, toast and
muffins appeared all at once on the table, and were
ably discussed by Mr. Buchanan and his guest,
together with amusing anecdotes about the court of
Russia thirty years before ; how nearly we had gone
to war with England over the Oregon boundary in
Polk’s administration; and how, by “every law
human and divine,” we should be justified in
wrestling Cuba from Spain “ as soon as we have the
power.”

“And that will be soon now,” said Mr. Buchanan,
“for when we emerge from this war the great fact
will be that, whether we like it or not, we shall be
the most powerful military nation on earth. Manifest
destiny from now on will be merely a matter of
a series of peaceful delays. The federal government
is going to be supreme, and that will eventually
mean conquest.” He took a large apple as he neared
the end of his discourse and began to pare it.

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW 71

“Personally,” said he, “I did all I could to
prevent this. I now see the hand of God in it. But
personally I regarded the nice balance of power
between the states and the federal government,
that has existed up until recently, as the triumph
of the political genius of our race. That was what I
wished to conserve. Slavery, I tell you, was a side
issue. Most of the thinking men, the statesmen at
both the North and the South, that I have known
for two generations have always said so. We are a
legal-thinking people. We and the English are the
only two peoples on earth who understand that the
government must be kept in leash.

“Now,” he continued, walking over to the
window and eating his apple in considerable excite-
ment, “our balance in America has been destroyed.
The federal government is going to be everything.
Since Mr. Lincoln has enlisted the services of
General U. S. Grant I can see that that is going to
be so. There is a fatality about that man’s initials,
you know. History sometimes plays the Pythoness
whimsically like that. And his is a new kind of
generalship.” The ex-President drummed on the
window-pane. “U. S.,” said he. “U. S. . . .
U. S.? . . . It is only men of genuine philosophical
sense who can understand that the form of govern-
ment is the most important thing in the world.
Everything is contained in that,” he muttered.
“I did my best to prevent this. I did my best!”

72 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Would you have let the South go?” asked the
colonel, fascinated at hearing an ex- President confess
himself to a window-pane.

“No, I would have prevented them but I
wouldn’t have conquered them. Is that too nice
a distinction? Too nice, I am afraid, to exist now
in the fires of passion that so much killing has
kindled. But it will be the final test, I think, for
Mr. Lincoln after the war. God help him!” said
James Buchanan. He turned from the window, and
his face worked.

“Come,” said he, “let me show you about
‘Wheatland.’ It is the pride and comfort of my
old age. Most of my life was given to the Republic.
I could wish that ‘Wheatland’ should not be
forgotten — afterwards.” He sighed and ate the
last of his apple pensively.

They walked down to the farm buildings together
while the ex-President expatiated upon his barns
and acres. And, indeed, “Wheatland” was a
magnificent farm.

Time was when it was possible for a young man
to bow his head naturally before an old one to
receive his blessing. And this the colonel did before
James Buchanan. The blessing was brief. But it was
given with an old-fashioned piety and a courtesy in
farewell that justly marked Mr. Buchanan as one
of the great well-mannered gentlemen of his time.

Much moved by this leave-taking from his

YESTERDAY AND TOMORROW 73

father’s old friend and the hero of his own boyhood,
the colonel saddled Black Girl himself and pre-
pared to depart. But he was not so affected as to
forget to press a greenback into the fervent hand of
old Crawford, who walked with him a space down
the lane for old time’s sake and out of sheer
gratitude.

“Ah, it’s only local shin-plasters I get around
here now,” said Crawford, “and not too many of
them. At the White House, I remember, the
Brazilian ambassador used to give me gold. Great
days, sir!” he whispered.

“Good-bye, Mr. Nat, good-bye!”

The colonel broke into a gallop. The trees on
the old road rushed by him. It was a magnificent
September day. “Wheatland” and its memories
lay behind him. Some weeks of his furlough and the
open road lay before. He drank in the cool morning
air with delight and whistled shrilly. A field of late
wheat rippled goldenly in a valley. It reminded
him of the corn colour in Mrs. Crittendon’s hair.
He whistled even louder at that.

“Why, the idea!”

It was good to be alive. Black Girl gathered
herself under him and thundered down the Pike
towards Lancaster. Tomorrow and tomorrow and
tomorrow — was the tune her hoofs now seemed to
be drumming on the road away from yesterday.

CHAPTER IV

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG

At la ncaster the army quartermasters
and the patient employes of the Pennsylvania
Railroad had been up all night, and the night
before, switching troop trains going east and
empties going west. They were hollow-eyed and
cinder-grimy. To them Colonel Franklin was just
as welcome as a wasp in a bag of candy. All he
wanted was a box-car on a west-bound empty for
Black Girl and a flat-car or a ride on a locomotive
for himself. Only as far as Harrisburg. Where,
said he, looking very official, the government was
in a great hurry to have him go.

But it w r as afternoon before he could arrange it.
A great deal of coffee and doughnuts, several
plugs of tobacco, and another greenback finally
made up for his lack of orders. At last a
quartermaster, convinced or worn out, flagged
a west-bound empty headed for the arsenal at
Pittsburgh.

Consequently, about one o’clock the colonel
found himself somewhat ridiculously being “made
comfortable” as the sole passenger of a flat-car
immediately behind the tender of a diamond

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 75

smoke-stacked locomotive called the “Ambas-
sador.” A defunct rocking-chair had quickly been
spiked to the planks of the car and over this the
wreck of an old canvas-covered crate was hastily
erected to keep off the sparks. The quartermaster
who had wildly assembled this squalid contraption
muttered to the fireman that some people wanted
to be too damn’ comfortable anyway, and winked.

Under his martial pavilion the colonel now
sat in a semi-woebegone state, for the fireman had
thoughtfully emptied a bucket of water over the
canvas to prevent the sparks. It dripped — on the
colonel and onto a copy of the Harrisburg Telegraph
that the engineer had provided to keep his passenger
quiet. He, too, had handled “ginerals” before.
He didn’t like them in the cab.

The colonel grinned patiently. Over the top of
his newspaper his blue eyes twinkled at Black
Girl’s brown ones, where she nickered at him
through the slats of the first car behind. She had
basely and falsely been persuaded into her present
alarming predicament by doughnuts — and she
wanted more.

“ Gookamo , gookamo, ,> wheedled the Pennsylvania
Dutch brakeman, making circular gestures to the
engine crew as he lured the “Ambassador” slowly
backward to couple onto the colonel’s car.

“Look out, you’re against!” he roared suddenly.
But it was too late.

76 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

The “Ambassador” settled into the cars with a
smashing shock that nearly catapulted the colonel
from his chair. A whistle, that set Black Girl
dancing, summoned the train crew. There was a
volcanic eruption of sparks and clouds of steam, a
sickening, earthquake lurch taken up by each car
in turn; and with admonitory wails to its long line
of brakemen, alert at their wheels on every other
car, the long empty train rushed screaming out of
Lancaster.

The colonel was delighted. He might have caught
the two-o’clock express for Harrisburg. But in that
case he would have had to trust to providence and
the quartermaster corps to see that Black Girl got
to Harrisburg too. Providence might be all right,
but he had his doubts about quartermasters.
Besides, like all old campaigners, he was now
easily at home almost anywhere he found
himself.

Flaming clinkers caromed off the roof of his
“pavilion.” A constant rain of cinders pattered
about. Behind him the square rear of the tender
leaped up and down and rocked frantically to and
fro as the “Ambassador” negotiated the right of
way at all of forty miles an hour. But he sat con-
tentedly enjoying the feeling of rushing out into
space which the open flat-car conveyed. His two
saddle-bags, all that he needed, were beside him.
Presently he placed Black Girl’s saddle over the

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 77

broken chair, sat on it comfortably enough, and
managed in the shelter of the tender to read the
Harrisburg Telegraph.

The jerks of the train no longer annoyed him.
He had crossed the continent and fought three
campaigns in that saddle. It was now the most
comfortable seat he knew. The lovely fields and
valleys of his native state flowed backward into the
east, followed by the telegraph wires loop by loop
by loop. The colonel chewed the end of a Wheeling
tobie, which is one degree more stunning than a
Pittsburgh stogie, and settled himself to his news-
paper.

Sheridan, he was glad to see, was thoroughly
reorganizing the new “Department of the Middle.”
Snipers were being ruthlessly wiped out in the
Valley. Early was temporarily quiet beyond
Port Republic. Grant was — but he turned the
page.

Clement Laird Vallandigham was loose again,
thumbing his nose at “King Lincoln.” There was
a real Copperhead for you! He skipped the item
impatiently.

Representative John M. Broomall, of Pennsyl-
vania, had “introduced a bill in the House to
reimburse every officer above the rank of captain ”
— the colonel’s attention became fixed — “for oats
consumed by the said officer’s horse or horses during
the period of the rebellion.”

78 ACTION AT AQUILA

Why only oats? thought the colonel. But the
Democrats were opposed — the villains ! The colonel
grinned and continued. Here was the kind of news
he doted on:

Remarkable Occurrence at Shamokin

Our Northumberland County correspondent
informs us by electric telegraph that a frog
having four perfect back legs and two heads was
recently taken in the mill-race at Mary Ann.
Although dead when first seen by our corres-
pondent, he was assured by its captor, a promin-
ent member of the local bar, that it was normal
in every other respect. The person transmitting
this information is of such a high order of moral
character that it is impossible to doubt the
correctness of his views. “ What hath God
wrought!”

For some reason or other this tickled the colonel
enormously. Brushing occasional cinders from his
eyes, he continued:

Dauphin County — a great many Rutherfords in
the vicinity of Harrisburg were visiting a great
many Rutherfords . . . The ladies’ bazaar at
the . . .

He turned the page:

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 79

Uriah H. Myers
Printer to the

Commonwealth of Pennsylvania
will

— for a trifling emolument —
beautifully bind, trim, and decorate

Copies of Harper's Weekly,

The Illustrated London Hews
also

Leslie's Weekly and Other Periodicals
(Preserve your illustrated history of the
present great war)

Followed a long list of the killed, wounded, and
missing of the present great war.

The train rocketed out onto a long trestle. Over
the end of the tender climbed a fat soldier “to
borry the loan of a chaw.” The colonel extended
him a tobie, upon which he began to ruminate. He
was, he confided, from Doylestown. He belonged to
the Pennsylvania Reserves and was returning to
Camp Curtin at Harrisburg. “Mine off is all,” he
said. By this the colonel presently understood that
the man meant his furlough had expired. Presendy
the tobie began to get in its good emetic work. The
man arose, tottered, saluted with open fingers, and
managed with some difficulty to crawl back over the
tender to his friend the engineer. He wanted
sympathy.

80 ACTION AT AQUILA

Sometime about sundown, with brakes and
whistles screaming, the train pulled into the yards
of Harrisburg.

The colonel enticed Black Girl out of her box-car
by a final doughnut that he had saved for the
occasion. She picked her way gingerly over the
frogs and switches in the yards and snorted upon
finding a good city road under her feet. They
galloped down into town.

But Harrisburg was packed. The legislature was
still in extra session. There was to be a great review
by the governor at Camp Curtin next day.
Politicians and soldiers, their families and relatives,
swarmed. Not a decent bed was to be had. Even
Mr. W. H. Thompson, the manager of the United
States Hotel, could do nothing and said so. With
some difficulty the colonel found a stall for Black
Girl, but nothing for himself. It was already late
twilight when he found himself, still supperless and
shelterless, standing much perplexed in old Capitol
Park looking down State Street.

There was something peculiarly inviting, genteel,
and domestic about State Street. It ran for only a
few blocks, with the river and an island glimmering at
its end, seen down a tunnel of ancient trees. Through
these and the honeysuckle vines covering the trellised
porches shimmered the pale yellow of parlour lamps ;
sounded the voices of children going to bed and a low
hum of conversation and click of supper dishes.

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 8l

The colonel felt a wave of homesickness sweep
over him. Behind him a few belated squirrels still
frisked from tree to tree about the glimmering,
white stone buildings of the old Capitol. A gig with
its lamps burning like twin stars stood waiting for
someone by the kerb. He walked up into the park
and sat down on a bench with his haversack beside
him. Twilight died slowly in the wide valley of the
Susquehanna. Darkness comes softly in Harrisburg.

The colonel sat for a while in one of those half-
pleasing, timeless reveries that fatigue and lone-
liness will bring upon the best of us. It was a quarter
of an hour later when a tall man in a plug hat
came down the walk from the Capitol, briskly, as
though he were late for supper.

“Good evening,” said the colonel suddenly out
of sheer loneliness as the man passed him.

“Oh,” said the gentleman, somewhat startled,
for he had evidently not seen the man on the bench.
“Who is it?” he asked a little doubtfully, stopping.

“I beg your pardon,” replied the colonel. “I
am a stranger here and had really no reason to
speak to you. Except — that it seemed a bit lonely.”

“Reason enough,” said the gentleman, with a
pleasant laugh. “Well, my name’s Myers,” he
added, holding out a white hand in the darkness.

“Not Mr. Myers, the state printer!” said the
colonel by journalistic inspiration, while he intro-
duced himself.

Fa

82 ACTION AT AQUILA

“The very man,” replied the figure in the
plug hat and long black beard, for that was about
all the colonel could see of him. “ Were you looking
for me?”

“ Why, yes, in a way,” laughed the colonel, strain-
ing circumstances a little. “I thought, since you are
a person of some consequence, you might direct me
to the home of a respectable family who could put
me up overnight. I am unwashed, unshaven, supper-
less, and a stranger. You see, I need influence.”

“In fact, a desperate character in desperate
circumstances,” said Mr. Myers, chuckling. By
this time they had strolled down to the foot of the
park together. “ Come with me, sir. I think I know a
fairly respectable family not far from here who will
be happy to accommodate you. But I can’t guarantee
that my influence will necessarily prevail.” Where-
upon, much to the colonel’s embarrassment, Mr.
Myers insisted upon shouldering the colonel’s bags
and, much to his delight, turned down State Street.

“Good evening, all the Blacks,” said Mr. Myers,
raising his plug hat mock-loftily as he passed the side
porch of a house on the corner. A chorus of familiar
greeting and the giggles of girls came out of the
darkness.

“Helen has been waiting supper an hour for
you,” said a motherly voice.

“You’d never do that for your mister, would you,
Mrs. Black?” replied Mr. Myers.

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 83

“I’d never keep her waiting,” shouted Mr.
Black. At which tremendous repartee there was
warm laughter from all hands.

Something about this simple neighbourly warmth,
perhaps something in the umbrageous atmosphere
of State Street itself with its broad brick walks and
dark spreading trees laced below with the glow
from bedroom windows, contrived to warm the
cockles of the colonel’s heart. Somehow he felt
as though he were going home, and he surrendered
himself gladly to the impression. Mr. Myers turned
in at the house next door to Mr. Black’s. “ Sit down
for a minute,” said he, “till I speak to Mrs. Myers.”

“But, my dear Mr. Myers, I had no idea of
imposing myself on you!” began the colonel.

“ My dear sir,” replied Mr. Myers, pausing for a
moment on his own threshold proudly, “no officer
in the Union Army shall go without supper and
shelter in Harrisburg so long as there’s food and a
roof at my house. Now wait just a minute,” he added
and went in with the colonel’s bags.

“Uri, how late you are,” cried a clear, womanly
voice somewhere in the hall. There was the sound
of a kiss, whispers, and the swish of skirts rushing
upstairs. Somewhere up there a room was being
rapidly put in order for him, the colonel thought;
and he remembered how empty and bare the old
house at Kennett Square had seemed since his
mother’s death. Decidedly it lacked something.

84 ACTION AT AQUILA

What a sensible fellow this Myers is, he began to
reflect, when he noticed that he was not, as he had
supposed, alone on the porch.

The porch was dark except where a dim glow
came out of the front door from a room beyond the
vestibule. But at the opposite end of the veranda a
clear stream of lamplight escaped in a downward
bar from beneath a blind to illuminate the lap of
someone seated there. From the waist up the
figure was invisible; a black skirt from the knees
down — and a great splash of scarlet, blue, and
white, smouldering and squirming in the lap under
the bar of light.

In the cavernlike perspective of the porch, behind
the dense vines that shielded it from the street, the
trunkless figure, the living, moving mass of colour in
so mysterious a lap, produced an all but occult effect.
Back and forth through the beam of light flashed a
pair of birdlike hands that seemed unattached and
to be feeding, as it were, upon the mass of colour over
which they hovered. Nothing else was to be seen,
and there was nothing else to be heard but the
breeze in the vines and a faint rustle of silk.

It was some instants before the colonel’s eyes
were able to resolve this camera obscura vision into the
more prosaic view of a pair of woman’s hands
engaged in mending an American flag.

Still there was something aloof about the half-
concealed figure. Although he was tired and hungry,

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 85

the colonel’s curiosity was aroused. Nor did it
lessen when he observed that neither darkness
nor light made any difference to the busy fingers
sewing the flag. With a strange indifference, but an
infinitely delicate touch, they sought out the rents
in the fabric, whether in lamplight or shadow, and
went to work upon them with the smallest of needles
that flashed occasionally like a firefly as it darted
in and out of the beam of light.

The silk rustled. The colonel did wish Mr. Myers
would return. . . .

“ Helen will be ready for you presently,” said the
woman in the corner.

The colonel started a little. The voice seemed to
be coming from behind the veil. There was a queer
other-world quality to it.

“I have felt your eyes upon me for some time,”
the woman continued. “You are a soldier, aren’t
you? At least I can smell your horse.” She
laughed a little languidly.

“Yes, madam, I am Colonel Franklin of the
Sixth Pennsylvania Cavalry,” answered the colonel,
somewhat awe-struck.

“I am Mrs. Anna Gill, Mr. Myers’s mother-in-
law,” replied the woman. “Uri would have intro-
duced us if he had seen me.” She sighed a little.
“He is not indifferent.”

“That is beautiful work you are doing, Mrs.
Gill,” said the colonel, at a loss what else to say.

86

ACTION AT AQUILA

“So they tell me,” replied the voice patiently.
“But perhaps they are only being kind? I can’t see
the work myself, you know. I have been blind now
for nearly fifteen years.”

Lord! thought the colonel. I might have known.

“That makes it a little difficult, you see, some-
times.”

“Yes, Mrs. Gill,” said the colonel.

“Uri gets me the torn flags from the adjutant-
general’s office when the regiments turn them in,”
continued Mrs. Gill. “Uri is quite a politician, you
know. He knows how to get things. I repair them
before they go back to the field again. Some of them
are shot full of holes, and the state has to buy new
ones. This one, they say, has been back twice. I
repaired it, I think, just after Gettysburg. Do you
know, I dream over these flags a good deal.” She
sighed almost inaudibly. “I have three sons in the
army myself. None of them has been killed yet. I
am very thankful. Ah, here comes Uri!”

Mr. and Mrs. Myers were both at the door.

The colonel was introduced, formally to Mrs.
Myers and with some gaiety to Mrs. Gill, who, as
she was led into the house by her daughter, enjoyed
immensely the kindly banter heaped upon her for
having adroidy annexed the colonel in the dark.

“But it is always dark for me, you know, colonel,”
laughed Mrs. Gill. “I have to do the best I can.”

“You do extraordinarily well, mother,” said Mr.

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 87

Myers, winking at his wife. “Every morning,
colonel,” he continued, “ Mrs. Gill holds a levee on
the front porch when State Street goes to work. She
is better than an extra cup of coffee. Even when
the war news is terrible she sends us all to the
office laughing.”

“The finest stimulant in the world,” said the
colonel, taking Mrs. Gill’s arm to lead her into the
dining-room. “Madam, permit me.”

The wonderful face of the blind woman, calm,
invincible, with a kind of cosmic benignity caught
in its lines of suffering, looked up at him and with
closed eyes flashed him an unquenchable, coquettish
smile. She patted his arm. It was the signal that he
had been taken into the family circle. Mr. and Mrs.
Myers looked at each other and smiled.

“ Mother and I have had our supper,” said Mrs.
Myers, “ but we can sit with you and Uri while you
eat, if you like.”

“Certainly we should like,” said Mr. Myers,
putting an arm around his wife — and they entered
the little dining-room, elegant with coloured glass-
ware, stuffed pieces, and whatnots. An oil lamp
threw an intimate circle of light on the broad
roses of the low ceiling.

By some domestic magic Mrs. Myers had not only
rearranged the guest chamber, but had also set the
table for a pleasant little supper for two, all, so to
speak, in the twinkling of a mouse’s eye. She had

88 ACTION AT AQUILA

even managed her long jet earrings, a fresh lace
collar, and her best cameo brooch.

What is important to the soul is always mysterious.
Just why the supper that night in Harrisburg with
the Myerses afterwards assumed an importance in
the colonel’s memory equal to a major and vital
event was largely inexplicable. That it did, he could
have no doubt.

Curiously presiding over the scene was the
patient and yet determined and exalted spirit of the
blind Mrs. Gill. Already past middle age, with two
homely but kindly furrows extending from her nose
to her mouth, she gazed seemingly into the future
with unseeing and unwinking eyes. Events could no
longer much affect her. Her affliction, by darkening
the world, had intensified within her a secret source
of blander radiance. Absent from her eyes, it seemed
to shine through her lips slightly parted in a smile
as calm and reassuring as lamplight under the
threshold of a closely-shuttered house.

Not that she said anything in particular. She
simply sat there with all the vivid awareness and all
the aloofness of those who for some reason are at
one within; whom nothing can overcome. And while
Mrs. Myers poured the coffee and spoke of the
difficulties of raising tame blackbirds and children,
—both of them died easily, it seemed, in Harris-
burg, — Mrs. Gill continued to look into the future
blindly and to provide the human atmosphere that

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 89

surrounded them all; in which the four of them
gathered under the misty arch of lamplight reflected
from the ceiling were as one.

They were not particularly aware of this. No one
spoke of it. It was a mutual and understood feeling.
Suddenly, quite suddenly to the colonel, who was
fatigued and somewhat hazy for lack of sleep, it
seemed that Mrs. Gill had become — was — in
herself the essence of the town, the state, the nation
that lay all about them in the night without.

The blackbirds that died were embalmed, that
is — The colonel started a little.

Mrs. Myers was still speaking of blackbirds.

They were under a glass dome on the mantel-
piece, poised coyly on an obviously artificial branch
and supposed to be about to peck at a berry that
was — that looked uncommonly like a shoe button lost
in the painted leaves of yester-year at the bottom of
the dome. They seemed to have attained a complete
domesticity, a timeless existence in a vacuum under
the glass. The colonel, a bit weary, envied them for
the time being. Marriage had its compensations. After
the war he would like to crawl under a glass dome
like that, with someone. That precious pair of birds,
how they looked at the shoe button — while he for-
ever smirked, she poised in air — elegantly.

And above them was Mrs. Myers’s child, who
had passed with the blackbirds, so she was saying.
He also was embalmed, but in paint.

go ACTION AT AQ.UILA

It was a startling portrait in a tremendous gilt
frame. A little boy with wide clear brows, dressed
in a virulent red dress. ABC blocks were heaped
over his chubby legs, and behind him were two
tremendous painted curtains with tassels, and a
light that seemed to be beating up from the Sea
of Glass. Nothing else could be reflecting it.

“Poor Henry,” Mrs. Myers was saying.

By a curious telepathy or sleepy propinquity,
for the room was very silent except for the soughing
sigh of the lamp, and Mrs. Myers’s soft voice, the
colonel suddenly saw the picture through her
eyes. Her baby sitting in paradise bathed in eternal
light. For an instant the long shadow made by one
little foot across the golden sands assumed the
importance of the shade cast by the gnomon of
Cleopatra’s Needle. It led fortuitously to “Alf
Wall, pinxit, Pittsburg, Pa.” The artist had
somehow contrived to bathe his name in not a
little of the eternal light.

With a start the colonel just prevented himself
from nodding and chuckling at the same time. It
would never have done, never !

“For when he died,” said Mrs. Myers, her eyes
hanging on the portrait softly, “mother said she
thought she heard music in the room. Harps,”
she whispered. Under her lace cap Mrs. Gill smiled
like a sibyl and said nothing.

Perhaps this was too much for the credulity of Mr.

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG gi

Myers, or perhaps he did not care to have so in-
timate a family miracle confessed to a stranger.

“Mother does hear things,” he said. “She heard
Gettysburg before the news came. The morning
of the first day she made us bring her chair down to
Front Street and she sat there on the river bank
talking about the guns. No one else could hear
them.”

“I felt them,” corrected Mrs. Gill. “It was like
distant bells in the air. A great tolling.”

“Quite a crowd gathered about,” said Mr.
Myers. “ She kept saying a great battle was going
on. Some of them laughed. Well, afterwards they
got the papers. Then some of them said they could
hear the guns.” Mr. Myers laughed at that himself.

“She sat there for three days. We took her down
every morning. People kept asking her what was
going on. You’d think she was an oracle the way
they acted.”

“On the third day something died,” said Mrs.
Gill. “I told them! I said it was over. I knew I was
right. What do they still go on fighting for?” she
asked with a little quaver.

“Heaven only knows, madam!” said the colonel.

“Uri, don’t talk about the war,” said Mrs.
Myers. “I’m sure that the colonel, that all of us,
hear enough of it. I can’t bear it. Sing us a little
something. Mr. Myers plays the zither, you know,”
she added proudly.

92 ACTION AT AQUILA

Somewhat shamefacedly, yet evidently pleased,
Mr. Myers brought his zither from the next room
and laid it on the table. He sat down and in a
moment lost himself as he ran his hands over the
low-toned wires. He sang a few old German songs
a little sleepily, like echoes from the past. When
he finished, Mrs. Myers filled four tiny blue glasses
with parsnip wine. They drank to one another and
retired. Next day was a Thursday and a bright
shining morning in Harrisburg.

The colonel rose early. But not so early that
Mrs. Myers and Mrs. Gill had not already been to
market and returned laden. Their “plunder was
toted by a contraband.” That is to say, their
purchases were carried home for them by a coloured
boy whose master in Virginia, owing to Mr.
Lincoln’s proclamations, no longer enjoyed his
services. Harrisburg was already full of “contra-
bands.” They poured across the narrow neck of
Maryland into Pennsylvania and in the southern
towns and counties of that state already constituted
a problem which was not being solved.

Mrs. Myers’s contraband had, for an old pair
of Mr. Myers’s shoes, virtually become a family
retainer, who expected to be retained. He followed
the two ladies every morning to market, taking a
peculiar personal pleasure in watching the blind
woman buy melons. Her touch told her whether
they were ripe or green. The rejection by Mrs.

TWILIGHT AT HARRISBURG 93

Gill of a fine-looking but unripe fruit offered by some
wily Dutch farmer caused the contraband Claudius,
or “ Cloud” as he was known, to whoop loudly, and
to do a cart-wheel or two in front of the farmer’s stall.
This negative advertisement and Mrs. Gill’s un-
canny touch gave the market- men the feeling of being
“ hexed.” As a consequence Mrs. Myers’s basket was
supplied with nothing but the super-best.

Upon such delicacies Cloud dined contentedly in
Mrs. Myers’s kitchen, dressed in an old mail-sack
from which the iron collar, like a badge of slavery,
had been removed. A pair of frayed scarlet sus-
penders, an ancient, moth-eaten beaver hat crushed
beyond hope, Mr. Myers’s boots, and the large
black U. S. Mail staggering over his breast gave
Cloud the appearance of an Ethiopian uhlan, and
an importance that sustained his soul.

It was he who brought Black Girl, beautifully
groomed and shining, from her stable and watched
the colonel depart for “ole Virginny” with home-
sick eyes.

Poor Cloud, thought the colonel, your shadow
lies black across the land.

Noon was booming out from the old Capitol
clock when he at last rode down State Street, after
a fond farewell to his hosts. Trotting along Front
Street, he finally merged himself in the half-
darkness of the long covered bridge across the
Susquehanna — headed south.

CHAPTER V

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL

The pattern of alternate light and shade
from the ports of the old bridge through which the
head of his horse seemed to proceed like some
animal in a weird legend, the hollow boom of
Black Girl’s hoofs in the long wooden cavern,
marked in the colonel’s mind the crossing of the
river that flowed between the lands of peace and
the realms of war.

As he came out in the sunlight on the other side,
the familiar sight of a long line of army wagons
climbing up from the river on the Carlisle Pike,
bound south for Sheridan, confirmed his fancy.
For a rough interchange of greetings and the whole-
souled profanity of the drivers and escort as he
passed along the train welcomed him with authentic
vocabulary into the regions of Mars.

And it must be confessed that the smell of leather
and horses, the squealing of wheels, the familiar
odour from bags of coffee, beans, and bacon brought
back memories of field and camp-fires that seemed,
with a strange contradiction, also to be welcoming
him home. For many years now the stars had been
his roof and the trees his canopy; the ever-changing

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL g5

fields of war the landscape of his home — in the
saddle. A horse was now almost like a part of his
own body.

As he rode rapidly past the wagons he took the
opportunity by light blows of his gauntlet about the
tender ears of Black Girl to break her of the dan-
gerous habit of neighing at every horse she met.
It was a bad, it might be a fatal, habit for a soldier’s
mount. Black Girl, being female, laid her ears
back and neighed the more. She could not, however,
avoid the spurs. Her punishment was light, but
she tore down the dusty highway towards Carlisle.
He let her have her head half the way.

There was just a touch of autumn in the air. Here
and there a maple burned gloriously before him.
Constellations of golden pumpkins lay scattered
amongst the cornstalks. The wheat sheaves were
piled high. It was a bountiful harvest, but it was
being taken in late. Only a year earlier Lee’s
invasion had swept over these border counties.
Most of the mules and horses were gone and nearly
all the wagons. And there had been subsequent
raids for more horses and fodder. Many people,
even lawyers and ministers in the smaller towns,
still went hatless, barefoot, or in the flimsiest
of pumps and slippers. From Chambersburg to
York, Pennsylvania had been swept clean of
hats and shoes, and had not yet reshod itself.
Many women’s shoes had gone South too, for the

96 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

Army of Northern Virginia had wives — even

babies, it appeared.

At Carlisle the colonel stayed the night. Part of
the town was still in ruins from the bombardment
of the year before. How Lee had massed his troops
there, and the various adventures of people in the
vicinity: that and the rebel raid of two months
previous were the common talk of the neighbour-
hood. The colonel left early next morning and
again overtook his friends of the wagon train en-
countered the day before. They were plodding
steadily ahead, having camped outside the town
overnight. Through the afternoon the long, waver-
ing ranges of the Alleghenies began to climb
above the horizon until the ridge of Tuscarora
Mountain towered like a fortress against the western
sky.

The distant sight of the green Appalachians
never failed to make his heart leap up and to
increase his fund of spirits. He regarded the
calm, fertile, and magnificent valleys that lay
between their wavelike, forested heights as the most
characteristically native of any scenery in America
— and he had seen a great deal of the United
States both East and West. This Appalachian
country was not huge, barren, and monotonous
like so much of the West. There was nothing here
to suggest that perhaps one had always better be
moving. On the contrary, there was a kind of over-

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL 97

tone from the countryside that whispered, “Tarry,
traveller, tarry. Here is comfort for the soul of
man. Here are verdancy and peace.”

For two hundred years, under the King’s
Peace and the Federal Union, the benign promise
of these valleys had been fostered and matured.
In them European bones had grown longer, old
ways of life had been forgotten and new habits
formed. These kindly, rolling mountains had
rocked the cradle of a new, perhaps a better, race
— the North Americans. And the hope of that
race was peace.

For if there was anything “new and better”
about America it was the hope of peace — of peace
on a more secure, vaster, continental scale than
had ever been tried or attempted before. Oceans
to the east and west of her, arid wilderness to the
south, and the self-same friendly people to the
north — the nation could not be seriously threatened
by anything but disturbance from within.

And now that had come. If Lee and his gallant
rebels succeeded, if the South successfully asserted
her independence, a great armed barrier would
stretch across the land from the Adantic to the
Pacific. There would be wars, endless Gettysburgs,
raids, burnings, implacable anger and growing
hatred, reprisals for generations to come.

Already the ancient, grim, and merry game of
“Harry the Border” had begun.

Ga

g8 ACTION AT AQUILA

The Valley of Virginia was laid waste from end
to end. Neutral Maryland and the teeming southern
counties of Pennsylvania with their shady towns,
long the abodes of decency and peace, were ablaze
with alarm lest the same fate should befall them.

In three years two blood-letting invasions and
a constant series of raids had wrought incalculable
havoc all along the Mason and Dixon line. The
country on both sides of it was already full of new
cemeteries and smoking villages. And as yet the
bonds of federal union were only loosened. How
when they were gone? — when every state was
sovereign to do wrong! Or would it end even
there?

Virginia had already divided in two and was
fighting herself internally. Sinister accounts of
villages “occupied” and ravaged by guerrillas
who cared nothing for either cause, but a great
deal for other people’s property, were rife. In
those hills to the south the dreadful revelries of
chaos were already going on. Those hills the colonel
regarded as rightfully the castles of a peace destined
to endure for ages to come. His love for his nation
was still somewhat English and was closely con-
nected with the land. Those hills were to him the
symbols of his country and, when he looked at them,
he knew what he was fighting for.

For arguments about slavery and the negro, he
cared little. They might be the ancient cause of

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL 99

this war. He could do nothing now about causes,
but he could help to prevent the effects ; save the
future from continual chaos.

About four o’clock that afternoon he rode into
Chambersburg, where the “effects” were abun-
dantly evident. The town was mostly in ruins. Two
hundred and fifty houses had been burned by
Early’s men seeking horses, shoes, fodder, and a
half-million in cash — and other sundries scarce in
Virginia. This had been only a few weeks before.

A village of temporary shacks and shebangs
had already sprung up amid the ashes. In the
business section of the town, shops and stores were
gallantly making shift as best they could to carry-
on with “business as usual” signs and a new stock
of goods. The lower story of the old hotel had been
made habitable, and the combined dining-room
and bar, in particular, was doing a roaring, boom-
time business, with the added excitement of the
approaching election in full swing.

Chambersburg was one American town where
the presence of the army was now genuinely desired
and appreciated. The colonel found his uniform
an easy passport to more hospitality and conviviality
than he was able to enjoy. In some of its aspects
the scene at the bar reminded him of his early
Western days. All that was needed was the presence
of a few drunken Indians to complete the illusion
that Chambersburg was a frontier town. A number

100 ACTION AT AQUILA

of rough-and-ready brethren as well as respectable
citizens, farmers, sutlers, wagoners, soldiers, and
politicians filled the room with a roar of talk and
eddying tobacco smoke. One “Judge” Bristline,
the henchman of Thaddeus Stevens “over to
Lancaster,” was busy turning out the regular
Republican vote. He proved to be not only affable,
but breezy. He stood against the bar with a glass
of whisky before him, smoking a large El Sol cigar
and welcoming every new-comer like a long-lost
son. It was the colonel who made the initial mis-
take of starting a conversation that threatened to
have no earthly end. . . .

“Bad as it is, it ain’t as though the guerrillas
had come here,” said a young militia officer,
interrupting Judge Bristline, but only temporarily.
“ The rebels were in a hurry because Averell’s men
were hard on their heels, but there was no one
murdered, and I didn’t hear of none of the girls being
molested. That crowd that rode into Chambers-
burg last July looked like brigands, all right, but
they had discipline. You will have to admit that.”

Yep,” said Judge Bristline, who was more
or less the oracle of the tavern, “you’ll have to
admit that.” As the judge spoke he settled com-
fortably over the brass rail one high arch of a pair
of fine new boots he had recently purchased in
Philadelphia, and squinted reflectively into a tall
glass of raw rye whisky.

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL IOI

“ When the rebels came there was no promiscuous
looting. They were in too much of a hurry for that.
Yet when they burned this town, they burned it
methodically. The half- million dollars they levied on
us was taken in a positively cavalier manner. That is,
what they could get of it. No promissory notes were
accepted. Some of our citizens paid cash promptly for
the first time in their lives. When they saw the money
going off in boxes in a wagon they could scarcely
believe it. It was just like a minstrel show taking all
the small change out of town. Not much worse,
either. They might have gotten all they demanded
but they didn’t know how to go about it. They
don’t know how rich these towns are, and cavaliers,
you know, have always been poor financiers.

“The shoe business, however, was more annoying.
That was an individual affair. They just stopped
you in the street or went into your house or office
and took the shoes off your feet or out of the closet.
It was most humiliatin’. And it was a mistake,
because they took both Democratic and Republican
shoes. And I have observed that ever since then
a barefooted Copperhead is as ardent a Union
man as a black Republican. Yes, sir, it was evident
that the Union meant shoes.”

“Among other things, I hope,” laughed the
colonel.

“Admittedly, but below all — shoes,” continued
the judge, taking a deep swallow and fixing the

102 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

flames of two bar lights in line in the remaining
amber of his glass.

“You see, I’m a reflecting man. I look deep into
things,” said he, twirling his glass about, “after
they happen, maybe. But like most people along
the border, I’ve thought a good deal about what they
call ‘Lee’s invasion,’ and it occurs to me that, if
Jeff Davis was responsible for it, phrenologically
speaking he must have a hollow instead of a bump
of sagacity under that shock of statesman’s hair
he sports. After all, he’s an American and he
used to be a good politician. So he must know that
in America, next to love the most important thing
is state politics. They say he sent Lee up North
to force foreign recognition for the Confederacy
— England, I suppose. What a damn-fool stunt
that was ! Trying to make friends with England, sir,
he thoroughly antagonized Pennsylvania!”

The judge brought his fist down on the bar so
that a dozen bottles jumped and everyone in the
place looked at him.

“You can laugh if you like,” he continued
almost grimly; “you can say that I talk like a
cider-barrel statesman or call me a barroom patriot.’
He refilled his glass, again held it up, and looked
through the clear whisky at the lights.

“Never mind if I seem to be taking a strange
view of things. Remember that I am now looking
at affairs through one of the finest focusing mediums

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL IO3

known to the mind of man. And what I say is that
when Lee invaded Pennsylvania he sealed the
fate of the South.”

At this point the judge felt impelled to swallow
his view of things.

“Gentlemen,” said he, inspired now and no
longer addressing the colonel in particular but
everybody in the room, and an unseen audience
besides, “ — gentlemen of the bar, did you ever
pause to consider the grand old Keystone Common-
wealth? There are forty-five thousand square
miles of her. She rolls superbly through mountain,
valley, and plain from the Delaware to the Ohio.
She teems with millions of hardy and prosperous
citizens. In the East she deals with the seven seas.
In the West she makes what all the world must
have. Her farms are fabulously fertile and her
mines pour forth the wealth of Golconda. Her
many cities are beehives of ingenious artisans.
Her philosophy is always the one that eventually
prevails. Alone, and by herself, she constitutes
one of the powerful nations of the earth. And it
was this mighty commonwealth, a nigh and good
neighbour to Virginia, that an armed rabble led
by plantation owners mounted on hunting horses
fell upon with fire, sword, and bloody slaughter.
What for? To gain the possible recognition of
England three thousand miles away! Was that
strategy, was that statesmanship?”

104 ACTION AT AQUILA

“No!” the whole room roared back at him.

There was a great thumping of glasses and
bottles, a stamping of feet — and not a little laughter.

“Make us another speech, judge,” someone
called.

“Where’s your uniform?” yelled a soldier near
the door, and dodged out.

The judge was instantly much embarrassed. He
had not meant to make a speech. He had simply
been a little overinspired by his “view of things,”
as he hastily explained to the colonel while leading
him firmly by the arm to a table in the corner.
There was no escaping him.

On this furlough the colonel seemed to be
doomed to listen to other people’s views on the
war. Well, it was natural enough, he supposed.
Civilians seemed to think that every soldier, every
veteran in particular, was more interested in
the war than in anything else. The colonel made
up his mind then and there that as soon as the judge
got through speaking his piece he would go out
and saddle Black Girl, no matter what hour it was,
and ride — ride away — over the mountains if neces-
sary, to some valley that was peaceful.

“No,” insisted the judge, “I should not have
made a speech, although it was a good one about
Lee’s invasion, but I could write a book about it.”

“I am sure you could,” admitted the colonel
hastily.

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL IO5

“But I won’t,” said the judge, “I’ll just give
you a few random impressions of it that will tend
to confirm the point which I recently made, ahem,
before the bar, as it were.”

The colonel settled himself resignedly, but with
an air of polite attention.

“Well, sir, when the rebels first poured into
this town I couldn’t believe it. I was surprised.
What surprised me? Why, they seemed to have
come out of the past. It wasn’t that they were in
Pennsylvania that was so astonishing. It was that
they were in the present. Talk, clothes, manners,
the way they acted was, well, it was colonial!
Damn me, I can’t quite explain it, maybe, but it
seemed like hearing echoes and watching ghosts
of something I thought I’d forgotten. They seemed
like so many yesterdays trying to palm themselves
off as the heirs of tomorrow. And that’s what made
us all feel that for certain they’d have to clear out.
Time itself seemed to be against them. I believe
they felt uneasy about it themselves. They acted
that way. Taking old hats and shoes too!

“Old Mrs. Patterson who lives down the Old
York Road — she’s nearly eighty — told me the
same thing. ‘Land sakes,’ she says, ‘I’d forgotten
folks could look that way. They come tearin’
down the road like somethin’ out of an old, bad
story of hard times. Them officers with long,
droopy capes ridin’ loose on rangy horses, with a

106 ACTION AT AQUILA

curl in their hats, so bearded and proud. It’s like
what English Uncle Ned used to tell us about
figh t in ’ Boney. And the cannon cornin’ tearin’
and bumpin’ after ’em. That’s what they wanted
our good wagon wheels fer ! And if you think the
riders went by fast, you ought to’ve saw their foot
soldiers. They don’t march like our boys, all
regular and together. They come stormin’ along,
bare feet and tattered trousers; cursin’, whistlin’,
lettin’ out yowls. It was the yowlin’ made us all
so mad. You could tell that people what whoop
like that ain’t fer law an’ order, even at their own
homes. No, sir, they don’t march together. Each
one fer himself with long strides kind o’ wolfin’
it along, and long rifles straight back over their
shoulders. I never seen so many lean faces under
broad felt hats all et round the brim. Land! Folks
ain’t wore hats like that around here sence the
stumps was took out. Swan ef I know where they
got ’em. ’Course they was hungry! They just et
us out o’ house and home. That’s all they took in
the house ’cept shoes. A general and his staff come
in the yard and I give ’em a bakin’ o’ blackberry
pie. There they set eatin’ wedges of pie and tryin’
to keep the juice from runnin’ down onto their
dusty breasts by wipin’ their mouths with their
gloves. I give the general a bottle of elderberry
wine too. He stuck it in his holster like a pistol and
thanked me like a gentleman. I guess maybe he

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL IO7

was one. Our little Billy was a-settin’ by the pump
watchin’, and he speaks up sudden-like and says
“Hurrah for Abe Lincoln!” “That’s right, son,”
says the general, “stick up fer your own side.”
And they all galloped off laughin’, latherin’ down
the road with the dust rollin’. My, there was a
sight of ’em. All day they kept cornin’ down the
hill. You’d see a bunch of old flags against the sky
and hear ’em yowlin’, and then another hull
colyum ud go by. After a while we jes’ closed the
shutters and set in the parlour like it was a funeral.
When we come out the horses was gone and most
o’ the hay, and wagon wheels. That’s what we’re
tryin’ to get the government to pay fer now — the
United States government! They ought to pay or
keep people like that where they belong. It was like
somethin’ let out. Next day our John jes’ went off
and jined the militia. “ I ain’t a-goin’ to stand fer
it,” he says. Next thing we heard was about
Gettysburg. Served ’em right!”’

The judge was an excellent mimic. In the r61e
of old Mrs. Patterson he had again contrived to
get the attention of the entire room. The colonel
was amused despite himself.

“Laugh if you want,” said the judge, “but that’s
history. You see, the point I’m making is that the
personal appearance of the rebels in Pennsylvania
was a mistake. After we saw ’em we knew they
couldn’t win. You’ll always read about Gettysburg

108 ACTION AT AQUILA

in the books after this, but what you won’t read,
and what I know, is that it wouldn’t have made
much difference if they’d won. They’d have been
awful tired even after a victory. They might even
have got into Baltimore, or Washington or Phila-
delphia — and there they’d have been waiting for
English help. They wouldn’t ever have gotten
North. Do you remember how the farmers turned
out and shot the British off around Lexington?
Well, it would have been like that only on a big,
big scale. It’s a long walk up three hundred miles
of the Susquehanna, with fine shooting from
every hill, and then you come to the border of
New York. What Lee’s invasion did was to turn
out the posse comitatus of the nation to put his
people down. Up to that time the war had been
fought by Abe Lincoln’s government from Washing-
ton with the U. S. Army. Lee turned out the militia
of the big powerful states against him. What
Lincoln’s and Governor Curtin’s proclamations and
bounties and the draft couldn’t do, the invasion
of Pennsylvania did. It got swarms of men for the
Army of the Potomac. That’s the finest army the
world has ever seen. The more you beat it the better
it gets. And now it has a great man for its general.
Let’s drink to him,” cried the judge. “It’s on me.
This nonsense about two governments in one
country is soon going to be over.”

“To the last battle then,” said the colonel.

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL IO9

“The only one that finally counts,” said the
judge. They drank.

The judge seized the colonel’s sleeve. “I want to
tell you one thing more,” said he earnestly.

“Good Lord, man,” said the colonel, “I won’t
run off with your best audience, even if it’s me.
But a bargain! Only one thing — not two. I’ve got
to go — sometime!”

“I know it,” replied the judge, looking rueful
nevertheless. “It’s too bad. But did you see the
rebels in Pennsylvania?”

“No, sir, I was in Virginia at the time,” laughed
the colonel.

“It would have encouraged you to have seen
them in Pennsylvania.”

“I can scarcely conceive that it would,” said
the colonel.

“But it would have. You see, they came all
excited and full of enthusiasm as though they’d
won a victory just by invading. They came ‘ yowlin’ ’
along the roads, as old Mrs. Patterson said. And
after a while the yowls kind of died away. I talked
to some of them here before they burned the town.
They were surprised and discouraged already.
There were more men about than they’d ever seen
before, even in peacetimes. And white men. No
signs of war. The most prosperous towns most of
’em had ever seen, and farms like they hadn’t
dreamed of.

no

ACTION AT AQUILA

‘“You didn’t know theh was a wah till we-all
come No’th, did you? ’ a young feller from Mississip-
pi says to me.

‘“No,’ I says, ‘not unless we read about it in the
papers.’

“‘How fah across is it, strangeh?’

“‘How far across what?’

“‘How fah across Yankee-land till ye git to
Canada?’ he jerks out, kind o’ firin’ up as though
I ought to be able to read his mind.

“‘Oh, about seven hundred miles, stranger-r-r,’
I growls. ‘ And swarmin’ with militia ! ’

“‘Shucks,’ he says, looking kind o’ sody-biscuit
green. ‘They told us you was all tuckered out at
the No’th. ’Tain’t so, is it?’

“‘Nope,’ say I, ‘it ain’t.’

“‘Well, if it’s that fah across Yankee-land,’
he adds kind o’ soft, ‘I’ll jes’ esk fer yer shoes.’

“ So I got down on the kerb and unlaced ’em.

“‘You can keep yoh co-at,’ he says, ‘it would
make my par look like an abolitionist. Er you one?’

“‘No, my pa owned niggers right here once and
not so long ago.’

“‘Do tell,’ says he. ‘ Well, then, ah reckon ah’U
take the co-at!’

“Now that’s one thing I want to tell you, but
there’s another thing I want to ask you.”

The long-suffering colonel nodded and took a
restorative drink. The judge joined him.

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL III

“It’s this. That same day as I walked, rather
I should say, sir, as I limped barefooted down Main
Street, there was a couple of young rebels looking
in Mrs. Tubb’s window. She’s our milliner. And
one says to the other, ‘ Lookee, Telfare, thar’s
moh poke bonnets in that thar window than you’ll
ever see in fohty Easters at Ninety-Six.’

“Now what do you think he meant by that?”

“Ninety-Six is a town in one of the Carolinas,
I believe,” replied the colonel.

“No! You don’t say so! Ninety-Six! Why, that
proves the point I’ve been making all along,”
cried the judge, his face brightening irrationally.
“If you want to talk that kind of arithmetic I’d
put it this way: They have as much chance of
beating us as Ninety-Six is to Philadelphia. Do you
get my point?” He looked a little confused. “You
will,” he insisted, “if you take my point of view.”

He raised the glass in the air and looked at the
light again. He seemed to be having some difficulty
with his eyes. And the glass was empty. The finger
which had been detaining the colonel by the sleeve
all evening now relaxed. The colonel carefully
detached himself and rose, leaving the judge sitting
there looking through his glass. He almost tiptoed
over to the bar.

“What do I owe?” said he.

“Are you payin’ for the judge too?” whispered
the barkeep thoughtfully.

1 12 ACTION AT A QUIT. A

“Yes,” said the colonel, “rather than disturb
him now, I’d ...”

The man nodded.

“Well, the judge came in about three o’clock
this afternoon.”

“Old Thad Stevens over to Lancaster says he’s
going to make ’em pay for all the trouble they put
us to,” began the judge.

“Lord!” said the colonel, looking frantically
at the barkeep.

“Seven-fifty,” said the barkeep.

The colonel paid and ran.

Judge Bristline continued to sit in the corner
looking through his empty glass. He had lost his
point of view. One eye had set up a Confederacy
of its own and insisted upon deviating from the true
line of sight. Where there should have been one
light, the judge saw two.

The colonel looked up and saw ten thousand. He
was standing outside once more, breathing freely,
and looking up at the stars.

All about him rose the blackened chimneys and
fire-scarred walls of the burnt town. Here and there
amid the ruins a light twinkled from the window
of a house where the inhabitants had returned and
set about repairs. There was already quite a number
of these cheerful beacons of returning peace, but
the place still smelled of charred, damp wood and
had about it the indescribable, owlish air of ruin

A BAREFOOTED RECITAL II3

and a great burning. The memories thus aroused
were for the colonel, momentarily at least, un-
bearable. It smelled like the Valley of Virginia.

He must get away from this. Only about three
weeks of his precious leave remained. For each
one of these weeks he had already spent a year in
the midst of war, and that part of his furlough
which lay behind him had, it seemed, been devoted
to the same thing — nothing but talk about the war.
If he could only get a few days’, even a few hours’
change! Perhaps in the remote Fulton County
Valley just to the west, where there were no rail-
roads and where few raids had come, he might
find — oh, well, just a brief respite. That was all
he was looking for. Black Girl would be tired, but
she was now a soldier’s horse and in any event she
must get used to being frequently roused at night.

He borrowed a lantern, and going to the stables,
which were as yet only half-roofed-in, he roused
the mare, gave her an extra feed and a good rub-
down. She stood patiently while he saddled her.
She made no effort to refuse the bit. . . . He was
glad to see that already she trusted him. “Poor
beast,” he murmured, “this is not your quarrel,
but you will probably be killed in it — bearing your
master.” He rode out, quietly keeping to the turf.

Some hours later he was ascending the long wind-
ing road that leads over a high ridge of Tuscarora
Mountain to the Fulton Valley beyond. It was well
Ha

114 ACTION AT AQUILA

after midnight when, he reached the crest and one
of the great views of the Eastern United States
burst upon him.

The remnant of a late moon rode high, pouring
a solemn glory into the giant furrow between the
straight lines of mountains. Farm and hamlet,
orchard, wood and meadow lay preternaturally
clear in a metallic light. Southward as far as the
eye could see a little river of quicksilver glittered
in S-shaped curves. There was not the slightest
suggestion of movement anywhere. It was like a
glimpse into the hidden Garden of the Hesperides.

Here, if anywhere — thought the colonel.

He removed his hat and let the cool night breeze
run through his hair. Black Girl stood, her feet
apart, breathing slowly. Miles below, a few lamps
in the valley marked the village of McConnells-
burg.

CHAPTER VI

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT

To act on impulse alone is frequently dan-
gerous and usually disappointing. As a military
man, the colonel had long ago discovered that.
Yet this midnight ride over the mountain into the
remote Fulton County Valley had been scarcely
more than a whim. But it was a whim which he
never regretted. The week that he spent in the
golden autumn weather between the flaming moun-
tain walls of that Pennsylvania valley, remained
ever afterwards in his memory as a brief classic of
heartsease and happiness. It was a kind of time-
less and halcyon tarrying between battles in a vale
of peace.

He rode into McConnellsburg, the quaint green
metropolis of the Fulton Valley, about dawn on
a Saturday morning and put up at the Waggoners
and Drovers Hotel which, though fallen upon
somnolent days, still welcomed him bountifully.
The colonel had a feather-bed, and Black Girl
a stall of clover. He slept all day, rose, ate his
supper alone in a dream, tried to read a volume of
General Albert Pike’s Hymns to the Gods and
naturally enough, slept again.

Il6 ACTION AT AQUILA

It was the rumble of the organ in the church on
the green near by that wakened him late Sunday
morning.

Rapidly he made the best toilet he could with a
razor, a comb, and a small whiskbroom, and strolled
over to the church. A bald-headed and sunburnt
farmer, obviously a pillar of the community,
welcomed him in whispers, but warmly, to “our
house of God.”

The colonel had not been inside a church for
many years. The Western frontiers and the war
had seen to that. But his mother had been a
Presbyterian, and from childhood associations he
felt like a boy in church again. The presence of
many children, who often peeked back at the
“soldier-man” in uniform, kept the feeling of the
place from being grim. Yet the service was austere,
its simplicity impressive.

This was the tabernacle of the valley. It was full
of Scotch-Irish Presbyterians in the presence of
their Lord of Hosts. The Scotch God who had come
into Ireland before Oliver Cromwell had migrated
with them to Pennsylvania. There was many a
“Mac” in the colonel’s regiment, some from this
very valley, and the colonel sat among them now
at prayers with a certain deep and intuitive under-
standing with which his more rational philosophy
did not interfere. In a sense they were his people.
Stonewall Jackson, he reflected uncomfortably,

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT 1 1 7

must also have been of the same persuasion, it
reports could be believed. And he wondered
whether the God invoked in Mr. Lincoln’s more
recent proclamations were not also a familiar in
this place.

Nowhere in that chapel was the Christian symbol
of salvation and mercy to be seen.

The uncompromising mountain sunshine flooded
through the clear, white window-panes, slightly
distorting the trees outside that seemed to be moving
and making vague gestures from another world.
The light rushed like cold, blue lake water over
the whorled woodwork of the pews, so that the
weather-tanned heads of the men, the poke-
bonnets of the women, and the icy-faced elders with
spade beards, sitting aloft on the platform by the
pulpit, were revealed in a state of super-reality.
The mere static vigour of their presence was over-
powering. They seemed to exist unalterable, sitting
there in some distant reflection from the incandescent
lamp of Justice burning between the cherubim
— praising it through their noses. For there was a
twang, not of harps, and only a far, quaint echo
of the litany in:

“Behemoth must salute his God;

The mighty whale doth spout;

Up from the deep wee codlins peep
And wave their tails about.”

Il8 ACTION AT AQUILA

That was the last verse of the last hymn. It was
therefore repeated. The colonel was so delighted
with it that he released the full fervour of a hearty
baritone into the lines and thus succeeded, in-
advertently, in turning many a sweet face in a
poke-bonnet towards the back of the church.

Outside in the calm autumn sunshine every hint of
spiritual grimness in these people disappeared in the
world of nature, as though Pennsylvania and Galvin
could not mix. Dourness seemed to drop from them as
their healthy and smiling faces passed out the church
door. A Mrs. Russell, the mother of a sergeant in his
regiment, recognized him. Instantly, he found him-
self surrounded by friends and fellow patriots ; over-
whelmed with invitations from Russells, Pattersons,
MacNaughtons, McLanes, and McNairs.

To these simple people it seemed the most
natural thing in the world that Colonel Franklin
should have chosen their beautiful valley in which to
spend the precious days of his leave. And best of all,
from having received back into their hearts many a
lad on furlough, they seemed to have attained a keen
sense of just how precious those days must be. Of
deserters they said nothing, nor did the colonel. And
that, too, was part of his passport to hospitality.

“Land of Nation!” said Mrs. Russell, as they
drove off with a surfeit of Russells great and s m all
in the Russell surrey, with a youthful Russell follow-
ing proudly mounted on Black Girl. “To think that

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT 1 19

you went to a hotel, and every letter from our
Jim has been full of news of you.”

The colonel was forced carefully to explain the
unholy hour of his arrival in McConnellsburg.
But that was the only embarrassment of his stay
in the county. That, and his inability to eat more
than half his own weight at a sitting.

For the demise of corpulent calves and the
silencing of voluble turkeys marked his course
southward as he rode down the valley, stopping
off at the various Macs’. He took part in the
harvest in regimental trousers and shirt-sleeves,
and swung a scythe with the best. He swam in the
deep holes of the quicksilver river while Black Girl
rolled in bracken on the banks. Heavily-laced peach
cobblers, pumpkin pies, creamy cider, and sombre,
potent perry became merely a daily ration. The art
of whisky-making lingered surreptitiously in those
regions, he was forced to conclude, not regretfully.

Oldsters took down their fiddles to while away
the evenings. At the McNairs’, after the dishes
were done one evening, Helen, the dark-haired
blue-eyed daughter of the house, brought out a
battered foot-organ and sang to it:

“ So over the heather we’ll dance together
All in the mornin’ airlie,

With heart and hand we’ll take our stand,
For who’ll be Fling but Charlie?”

“hurrah! boys, hurrah!” 59

About the colonel the excitement was peculiarly
intense and enhanced by a constant flurry in the
crowd. This was partly due to the dangerous
dancing of the colonel’s mare, and the fact that,
by a natural mistake, most of the spectators thought
that the colonel was stationed there to review the
departing regiment. Many kept trying to press
in upon him. They could see by his weathered
uniform that he was a veteran, and of high rank.

Personally, the colonel would rather not have
been there. He towered conspicuously above the
crowd, which was uncomfortable to a man of his
temperament, and to him the sight of a regiment
going to the front was bound to be painful. He knew
only too well what their final destination was. But
as the column of marching men drew rapidly nearer,
he forget all that. That is to say, he forgot himself.

He was swept by the overpowering feeling that
surged down the street. His horse suddenly stood
still and trembled. As though from the current of a
battery, that trembling was transmitted to the body
of the man. As the drums passed before him, the
baton of the drum-major flashed high out of the
shadow of the houses, twinkled in the upper sun-
light, and streaked back to the drum-major’s hand
again. Black Girl neighed and shook the foam from
her bridle. A hot blast of bugles tossed the air.
Just in front of him a servant-girl with red arms and
a dirty apron started to whinny. A large, dignified

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT 121

sheet about the “appalling defeat at Fredericks-
burg” back into the bin, where it was being saved,
along with other fatal defeats and victories, to
wrap elderberry jam pots for Mrs. McLane’s
well-lined shelves. In all this valley there was not
even one nervously clicking telegraph. There was
nothing more disturbing than the giant rumours
of the changing seasons forever raised by the winds
as they ranged down the endless mountain walls.
Here he had found peace again for a little, and he
was thankful for it.

He was grateful to the people of the valley who
had taken him into their homes. Their emotions
about the war were private ones, mostly sorrowful,
and therefore not to be communicated. They seemed
to regard war in the light of a natural and un-
avoidable calamity. Like childbed fever, it was a
form of fatality that frequently went along with life
and birth. It was one of God’s feeders of
cemeteries that was not to be discussed. For those
who had gone there was silent honour, and no
more.

Towards the end of his stay, as he stood one
afternoon part way up the mountain looking out
over the clustered roofs of a little place called Big
Cove Tannery into the peaceful and solitary fields
beyond, he was suddenly and forcibly reminded of
some fines by E. A. Poe:

122

ACTION AT AQUILA

“. . .They had gone unto the wars,
Trusting to the mild-eyed stars.

Nightly, from their azure towers.

To keep watch above the flowers.

In the midst of which all day
The red sunlight lazily lay . . . ”

So it had been with the people of this valley, he
thought.

Even now the red sunlight lay lazily across the
fields below as he descended the path to Big Gove
Tannery, where he was to pass the night.

This was to be his last evening in the valley.
It was time to go. His own desire and the calendar
said so. His thoughts now wandered, with an
eagerness and a bright anticipation that surprised
him, to his own regiment camped in the Valley of
Virginia a hundred miles away. He wondered
if Dudley, his orderly, had kept the flaps of his tent
tied and the rain out; if he had found that last
cherished bottle of nappy old English ale which
Bayard Taylor had sent him. Suddenly, and quite
anxiously, his hand went to his inner breastpocket
to see if Mrs. Crittendon’s packet was still safe.

It was still there.

At the thought of her a certain apprehensive,
yet strangely pleasing melancholy overtook him
as he rode through the sunset along the mill-race
path into Big Cove Tannery. It was very green

THE VALLEY OF DELIGHT 123

and cool along the mill-race. There was a constant
sound of deep-rushing waters.

“Roll, O Shenandoah, roll,” he trolled, his
mind still in Virginia.

But there was nothing melancholy about the
evening at Big Cove. The ample upper floor of the
tannery had been cleared for a barn dance given
for the entire neighbourhood. They had been
making shoes there for the army out of the new
tanned leather, and the half-hundred employes
as well as the owners of the place were flush with
a wartime, paper-money prosperity.

Lights shone from all the windows of the long stone
buildings and were reflected softly in the big mill-
pond. A notable battery of fiddlers had been assem-
bled, and there was plenty of hard cider and whisky.

The colonel danced, and danced late. He enjoyed
it hugely. Most of the families he had visited were
present. He danced with them all, mothers and
daughters, and saw them off home in the big carts
deep with hay provided by the “Management.”
A thousand farewells and a hundred messages to
the boys at the front with the 6th Pennsylvania
rang in his ears. The exhilaration of scraping
fiddles and the stamping of feet seemed to bubble
in his blood. Just before the last dance was over,
on sheer impulse, he mounted Black Girl and
galloped off down the valley with the sound of
music and summer laughter behind him.

124 ACTION AT AQUILA

Hard cider rides well. The moon was rising. The
trees rushed by him in the cool night. Black Girl’s
hoofs devoured the road. His sabre banged his hip,
reminding him of battles to come. Frantic dogs
overtook him, and fell behind. The neighbours
spoke next morning of a crazy man on a foam-
flecked black horse, that passed like a tipsy angel
in the night, singing and shouting:

“We are coming, Father Abraham, three
hundred thousand more . . .”

“You never can tell what a soldier will do next —
unless he’s a Union general,” said the colonel, as
he whirled over the Pennsylvania border early
next morning and found himself in Maryland.

CHAPTER VII

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE

There was no doubt that he was in Mary-
land. If his frayed map hadn’t told him, his ears
and eyes would have. That subtle something that
makes it unnecessary to pick things up for a long
time, if ever, that permits the chickens to wander
and the dogs to become legion, had even here, in
the far western and mountainous portions of the
“ Old Line State,” cast a certain oblique and faintly
visible reflection of Ethiopian decrepitude and
slavery over the countryside.

One could see it if one looked sidewise at it, so
to speak. Not all the buildings were upright.
The talk was a little softer and of a mode more
ancient. The emphasis by tongue and gesture was
just easy enough not to be tired. And in the small
town of Bellegrove only a mile or so over the line,
where he stopped for breakfast, the colonel noticed
the universal tag that marked every Southerner,
except the opulent planter class — an air of concealing
a great secret about which nobody must ever talk.

It had taken the colonel several years to guess
the secret. There wasn’t any. Yet, in a way, it felt
comfortable to be back over the line and “taken

126 ACTION AT AQUILA

into the secret” again. For that reason he merely
nodded at the dowdy matron who waited upon
him at the little hotel.

“Hog meat an’ coffee’s all used up. It’s been
took by the armies,” she said by way of explanation,
as she placed his eggs, hot biscuits, and molasses
before him. “There’s melk.”

The colonel nodded.

“I ain’t used to waitin’ myself,” she continued,
giggling a little uneasily as she slopped some of
the milk. “The niggers hev lit out.”

“All of ’em?”

“Well, most o’ the young’uns,” she said, sitting
down in a rocking-chair and beginning to do her
hair, “an’ them that stayed, even the old’uns, are
askin’ for wages. Did you ever hear the like?”

“Never,” said the colonel. “It must be terrible!”

A large strand of hair held firmly in her mouth
while she combed the other side of her head kept
the lady from replying immediately.

“ .Mo’lasses?” she said at last inquiringly, al-
though still muffled.

“No, there’s plenty, thank you,” replied the
colonel, and choked a little. “I should think the
border patrol would stop the contraband.”

“They do git some of ’em. But laws! Ye cain’t
stop ’em. They creep up through the woods from
Virginny at night just like fleas through a dog’s
har. And they take our niggers along with ’em.

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 127

The gals, ye know, go off with the boys. They say
they treat ’em like white folks in Pennsy.”

“That’s an exaggeration, I can assure you,
madam,” replied the colonel. “They only do
something for them, the best they can.”

“That’s about all any of us can do these days
with a passel o’ Republican scum in Washin’ton,”
sighed his hostess. “Sometimes I’ve thought o’
movin’ up Chambersburg way myself, but I ain’t
got no kin there. I’d jes’ be among strangehs.
Do you think you-all will be stayin’ with us now
or will Lee chase you out agin an’ come back,
rampagin’ up out of Virginny?”

“This time I think we’ve come to stay.”

She shook her head a little dubiously at his reply.

“Well,” she said at last, “I wish to Gord you’d
both get yer fightin’ done with and leave us alone
here in Maryland. Ain’t that reasonable?”

“ It’s very reasonable, madam,” said the colonel,
laughing heartily. “That’s the trouble with it
and Maryland, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, you men!” said the woman. “If you don’t
stop all your bang-bangin’ and your raidin’ and
burnin’, your yowlin’ and toot- tootlin’, and stealin’,
there won’t be no use hereafter of even startin’ a
settin’ hen.” She swept all the empty dishes into
her apron indignantly, took up his half-dollar bill
with a sniff, and departed into the kitchen. The
colonel waited for the crash of dishes.

128 ACTION AT AQUILA

It came.

He rose and went out onto the shady side porch.
An old coloured man with a grey, woolly head
sat on the steps in the sun, leaning over his cane.

“You the last one left, uncle?” said the colonel.

The old man lifted his head, brushing the flies
away weakly.

“Yas, sah. All dem wid sound limbs done gone
No’th. Please, Mars’ Gineral, do gib me dime fer
snack. Dey ain’t feed us no moh. Jes’ slops!”

“Go look after my horse,” replied the colonel,
giving him a paper quarter.

“Yas, sah, I’ll let her into de clovah paddock
behin’ de hoose. You’ll find yoh saddle lef’ in de
bahn.” He went off folding the note and muttering
thanks.

Neither colour nor politics kept anyone from
admiring the federal currency, the colonel noted.
The enthusiasm for it was universal.

He threw himself down on an old couch through
which the stuffing exuded in wads and, despite
the flies and the chickens, slept on the porch well
into the morning. In the paddock behind the house
Black Girl rolled, four feet in the air. The sunlight
most “lazily lay.”

He slept much longer than he had intended.
He wakened to the sound of cackling. One of the
chickens had laid an egg on the porch. But the
shadows were not yet lengthening, he noticed. It

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I2g

was just about noon. He saddled Black Girl hastily
and rode out of the town.

Maryland is only a few miles wide where he was
crossing it. Rather to his own surprise, for he had
forgotten the exact lay of the land, within less than
an hour he clattered across the canal bridge, found
himself trotting down a sharp declivity with the Poto-
mac River before him. It was the border of the new
state. He urged Black Girl into the water, spattered
through the shallow ford of the muddy stream, up
the other bank and was suddenly brought to a stand.

“Ha-awlt,” said an unpleasant voice with an
impudent drawl. “ Who be ya, and whar do yer
think yer goin’?”

Despite the fact that the man who challenged
him was fingering a pistol, the colonel could hardly
keep from laughing at him. He had on a pair of
what had obviously been red woollen underdrawers,
with white tape sewed down the sides for stripes,
toeless boots, and a blue uniform coat with buck-
eye buttons. He peered at the colonel out of such
thick, blond whiskers that his eyes seemed to be
lost in taffy that needed pulling.

The colonel felt inclined to do some pulling.
But, instead, he stated his rank and destination.
The man might be an authorized sentry even if he
had only red underdrawers on.

“Kunnel, ee?” said the sentry. “You don’
say? Well, yer cain’t go to Morgan Springs.”

Ia

130 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Why not?” said the colonel.

“ Oh, jes’ ’cause yer cain’t. It’s Sergeant Smith’s
orders.”

“Is Sergeant Smith in charge at Morgan
Springs?” asked the colonel in a surprised and
delighted tone.

“He ain’t egzactly in charge, he’s our ’lected
leader,” replied the man, now almost friendly with
so much conversation. “Why? Do yer know ’im?”

“I’ve met him in the army again and again,”
said the colonel.

“Now thar’s whar I caught ya lyin’,” said the
fellow suspiciously. “He ain’t in the army. He’s
Kanawher militiar.”

“Kanawha militia! What’s that?” demanded
the colonel.

“West Virginny; West Virginny, I should hev
said. That’s what they’re a-goin’ to call the State,
I hear. They wuz goin’ to call it Kanawher fastest.
That’s the reason we’re still called Kanawher
Zoo-aves. But yer cain’t go to Morgan Springs,
no how.”

Oh, can’t I? thought the colonel.

“ Well, I suppose I can’t,” he said in a resigned
manner, and took a bite from what seemed to be
a large plug of tobacco but was really a small brown
copy of the cavalry drill regulation which he drew
from his pocket. He pulled it slowly through his teeth.

“Have a chaw?” said he.

A HAD DOG INTERLUDE 131

“Don’ care ef I do,” said the man; “but pitch
that ar plug to me, and I don’ say I’ll pitch it back
neither,” he added, and pointed his pistol at the
colonel with a cunning grin.

“Catch,” said the colonel. He pitched the book
easily.

The man put out his hand to snatch it. About a
foot from his face the “plug of tobacco” suddenly
seemed to burst as the book opened and fluttered.

“Jesus!” said the Kanawha Zouave. His pistol
went off in the air.

Almost at the same instant the colonel and his
horse collided full tilt with the gentleman in military
underdrawers, catapulting him into a patch of
briers . . .

. . . and scratched them in again,”’ quoted
the colonel quite unconsciously, as he bent low
in the saddle and came up out of the river bottom
like a flying fish out of a wave.

“Go it, old girl!”

A short distance down the road the rest of the
picket, lolling about a blanket with cards and a
large jug on it, flashed into view. The colonel
switched to the bank of hard turf on the side of
the road.

Someone shouted.

There was a drumming of hoofs on the turf,
and Black Girl and her rider passed right through
and over the prostrate forms of the picket rolling

132 ACTION AT AQUILA

or leaping to one side. A sharp clink as one of the
mare’s iron shoes caught the jug marked her passing.
A rolling volley of oaths was the only ammunition
expended.

Faced by the irretrievable disaster of the shattered
jug and the agonized howls of their comrade, the
Kanawha Zouave in the briers, it was several
minutes before the gallant outpost could even agree
on what had happened. It was finally argued, plausi-
bly, that someone had passed. A new deal of full-
deck poker ensued, after the scattered cards were
picked up.

Meanwhile, the colonel had long ago disappeared
in a cloud of red dust around a curve in the road.

Before him, over the pleasant rolling hills the
white steeples and red hotel roofs of Morgan
Springs were already coming into view as he topped
the crests. It was five or six years since Nathaniel
Franklin, then but newly returned from the Oregon
country, had last visited the little resort. Doubtless
the “Springs” would now be almost deserted. But
he remembered the proprietor, Mr. Duane, pleas-
antly, and all that he wanted now was a room
overnight and a decent meal or two before he
finally turned back east into the Valley of Virginia
to rejoin his command.

After tonight, campaigning, field rations, and
the hard ground would again be his lot — perhaps
forever. This was to be a sort of last respite and

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 1 33

harmless indulgence coupled with pleasant re-
collections. For, although he would scarcely have
conceded it, there were certain sentimental memories
of moonlight on the broad verandas, of dancing,
and the cherished recollection of vanished, boyhood
vacations that had drawn him with the ghosts
of satin ribbons to the spot. Of course, he would
never admit it. But the scenery was getting painfully-
pleasantly familiar.

“My, my!” If that wasn’t the little “Pagoda-
cottage” where the Cary girls had stayed!

The swing — that was gone. Only a frayed rope
dangling. How Alice’s skirts used to rustle in the
breeze of swinging, and flap loose, and how she
would tilt them under her hoops ! Black Girl
pointed her ears down the vacant path where he
had unwittingly let her stop.

The place was high with weeds, wasps in the
porch, and all the paint scaled off. The little house
looked eyeless and hopelessly dilapidated. Some
one had taken all the fence palings. And it had once
been so charming!

A wave of anger and disappointment swept
over him as he turned Black Girl up the road again.
The village was just beyond around a short bend.
Ahead of him a rifle-shot rang out. The sound of
hoarse laughter and loud, loose talk came through
the trees. Another rifle-shot — a distant tinkle of
glass. The village street opened before him. Moving

134 ACTION AT AQUILA

warily, he took to the turf again. Yet it was all so
familiar.

The great trees with horizontal arms across the
double road with the green down the middle, Judge
Washington’s house with the cupola, the long fa9ade
of the old hotel, all lay before him. But heavens,
in what decrepitude ! There were the starshaped bath-
houses, and gay-latticed privies, scattered about
among the trees to the left, but deserted — literally
only skeletons of themselves. Someone had been steal-
ing lumber. And all the beautiful scroll-saw gates and
fences, once the pride of the street, where the girls
had leaned to watch the gentlemen riding around
the green under the trees were gone. Cows wandered
over the lawns. Even the village houses looked deser-
ted. Or were people peeping at him through shuttered
windows? Not a rose or a geranium anywhere.
Rubbish scattered everywhere, tangles of weeds and
honey-suckle, and — a rifle-shot rang out again.

He could see what was doing now. At the far
end of the green under the trees there was a large
group of men. They looked like more Kanawha
Zouaves. Someone was having a little unofficial
rifle practice. The flash of a round and wisps of
powder smoke caught in the trees showed where.
But there were only two men shooting. The rest,
a dozen or so, were pitching horseshoes. Scattered
all about them on the grass were some large black-
and-brown animals stretched out asleep in the sun.

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I35

Hogs, thought the colonel. Lord, I might have
known it ! Fit company — and right where the covered
chairs used to wait for the ladies. It made him
mad clear through. To see “soldiers” there dis-
guised, as it were, in blue Union coats made him
madder yet. Soldiers!

He started up the turf at the side of the road at
a rapid trot just as a quarrel and loud shouting
broke out among the horseshoe pitchers. The two
men with rifles paid no attention even when a
fight started. As the colonel rode up, one of them
leaned back against a tree and took aim at a window
in the hotel. The shot rang out and a light tinkled
out of a window in which only one pane now re-
mained. Most of the other windows in that wing
were gone.

The colonel walked Black Girl very quietly
from under the trees onto the lawn in front of the
hotel. He came up behind the earnest marksmen
unnoticed. The din of the fight over the horseshoes
a little farther down the green was hearty and
ferocious. Somebody was being gouged.

“You take the next shot, Jeb, and that’ll finish
that winder fer to-day,” said the man with the rifle.

“Never mind doing that,” said the colonel.

The two men leaped to their feet. One of them
shouted with surprise. Somewhere a hound with
a voice like a buoy bell began to bay. He came out
from under the hotel porch.

136 ACTION AT AQUILA

“What the hell . . . ?” exclaimed the man with
the rifle. “Hi!”

The fight stopped. A complete silence fell on the
green. The men stood gawking at him. And it was
then that the colonel saw them coming.

Not hogs — but dogs!

They weren’t razor-backs as he had thought.
They were big, massive curs like wolves that
gathered themselves in a pack as though they
understood their business. They gathered first.
That was what saved him. Someone whistled shrilly.
He noted that man, big full lips and spread nose.
Then the pack was after him, sounding like a night
hunt let out of hell.

All this had happened in the space of a few
heart-beats. His mind raced. It would never do
to try to meet them. They would drag him down.
His only hope was to string them out.

He spurred Black Girl madly down the left
street of the green. The double road was like an
oval race track with the deserted verandas of the
old cottages staring at it up and down both sides.
Many a time he had ridden around that oval
with the other gentlemen at the Springs, raising
hats to the ladies on the porches. How fashionable
then! — Now he was being hunted around it by
dogs! Black Girl’s hoofs hummed on the road.
She was bolting. That would never do. He held
her in, and drew from his right holster.

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 137

A big cur leaped suddenly at him from the right
side. It knew its business. It was running like a
deer, yet it soared up straight from the ground
in one clean leap for the mare’s nose.

“Got him!”

Maddened by the shot that had just gone off
by her ear, Black Girl seemed to settle nearer the
ground and to skim.

He flipped around suddenly in the saddle and
began to ride backward. It was an old Indian
trick. He had five shots left. He began to shoot
dogs.

He shot five of them — deliberately.

He reached back in his left holster for his other
Colt and pulled hard — pulled out a package of
sausage ! The one Helen McNair had put there out
of kindness. He flung it down, and pivoting on his
hands, turned forward again. Oh, fatal kindness
of Helen McNair!

He had his other revolver by now but he was
almost at the lower end of the drive where it made
the turn and went up the right side of the green.
There was no exit there. The cottages went right
around the curve. He would have to make the turn.
Someone had piled all the old park benches at the
end of the green. If the remaining pack got among
those he could never get them. But if he could string
them out across the green! That would give him
clear space to shoot. He might make it.

138 ACTION AT AQUILA

He swung across the green before the benches
and started coming back up the right side.

The dogs used their noses rather than their eyes.
They overran their trail. They were confused for a
moment or two. In those few instants he gained many
precious yards on the back track. Then one of the
men whistled to them — the same whistle. The
dogs saw him and came tearing across the green.
There were still four of them there, the bigger
and heavier beasts that had fallen behind. He
checked Black Girl. She reared. The eager whining
was close. He began to shoot.

Black Girl shied. He missed — twice. The group
of men began to roar.

Then he got them.

The colonel was literally blind with rage.
For an instant the scene before him darkened and
glinted with red sparks. Black Girl pawed the ground
and neighed. When the view cleared for the colonel
he saw the group of men at the other end of the
green silently staring at him. They had drawn to-
gether now. Trotting towards them quite calmly
across the grass was the sole survivor of the pack,
the biggest brute of them all, with that package of
Helen McNair’s sausage dangling from his jaws.

The calm absurdity of this, the impudent in-
difference of the animal to everything but the loot
retrieved, released a spring in the colonel’s brain.
Indeed, it would be more accurate to say “ exploded

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 1 39

a small mine.” For the next ten minutes things
continued to happen with explosive rapidity at
Morgan Springs. Sausage, in a manner of speaking,
was the cause of it.

The colonel had now emptied his pistols and
there was no time to reload. One glimpse of the
dog, trotting nonchalantly through the calm after-
noon sunshine with the meat in his mouth for his
amiable masters at the far end of the green, brought
the colonel into instant action! His sabre flashed
and Black Girl sprang forward, her hoofs drum-
ming frantically.

The dog saw him coming; broke into a trot,
then into a rapid lope. As his pursuer gained, he
made a dash for it.

Black Girl caught up with him almost opposite
the group of men. They stood fascinated. The
dog dropped the meat and turned; crouched.
The horseman thundered down on him. The dog
sprang. A blinding flash of sunlight struck him
where he might have worn a collar.

The colonel reined Black Girl in violently. He
brought her around on her hind legs, her forelegs
striking out, and came to a halt before the gang
on the green. His sabre clanged home in the scab-
bard. They eyed each other.

“Mah Gode!” said someone. “’At’s the fust
time ah ever did see a dohg cut ra-ight in two!”

It was the man with the thick lips.

I40 ACTION AT AQUILA

The colonel drew a revolver. He forgot that it
was not loaded. The laugh that had started died
away.

“Come here,” said the colonel to the man with
the thick lips. He was undoubtedly the clown of
the company. Everything depended on getting
him. He stepped forward, still grinning.

“You whistled the dogs on me, eh!”

The man stopped grinning.

“Didn’t you?” roared the colonel.

“Yes, suh, but . . .” A look of cunning came
into his face. His eyes shifted to the side.

The colonel flipped his revolver about in his hand.
The butt of it came down like a hammer on the
man’s head. He dropped. The revolver flipped
about again. Each one of the group before the
colonel thought its little O-shaped mouth was now
looking at him.

“Fall in!” roared the colonel.

It worked.

Afterwards the colonel thought they would
certainly have murdered him that day if they had
not at some time or other had some drill. But they
had. At the voice of authority the Kanawha
Zouaves began to fall in line. They even had a
sergeant, it appeared. Naturally, even in this
remote spa of West Virginia, he was an Irish m an.

“Guides on the loin. Centre dress. Hump, ye
damned spalpeens! Front!”

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 141

At the sound of this cheerful Irish voice the
colonel put his revolver back in its holster. He was
no longer dealing with individuals. A company,
a disgraceful, a ragged, dirty, and a sullen company
— but a company — had assembled itself before
him. The little Irishman finished dressing the line
and actually came out and saluted.

“Keep your men at attention, sergeant,” said the
colonel. “Face about and see that nobody moves.”

A short silence of rigid attention ensued. The
figure stretched on the green began to twitch.

“Johnson,” said the sergeant to one of the
men in ranks, “if you brush that hars-fly off yer
pate, I’ll kick you loose from yer arse.” The horse-
fly remained.

Meanwhile, the colonel quietly reloaded his
Colt revolvers. It gave him great satisfaction to
do so while the men watched.

“You can brush that horse-fly off now, Johnson,”
he said when he finished. “Sergeant O’Toole.”

“Killykelly, sor,” replied the sergeant.

“Sergeant Killykelly,” continued the colonel.
“Where is Sergeant Smith?”

“He’s after playin’ he’s king of the warld in
the bridal soote at the hotel, an’ . . .”

“Very good,” said the colonel. “Then I won’t
be able to promote him. But I’m going to call on
him — now.”

“Yis, sor,” said the sergeant.

142 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Whatever noises you may hear arising shortly
from the bridal suite, pay no attention to them,
sergeant.”

“Oi will not,” said the sergeant.

“I’m taking charge at Morgan Springs,” said
the colonel. “The troops to relieve your men will
be here shortly. Where are your quarters?”

“In the west wing, sor.”

“March your men off there and confine them
to quarters. Mount a guard at the door.” The man
on the ground moved and started to groan. “ Lock
him in the horse stalls,” said the colonel. “The
caged ones in the racing stable. You know?”

“Oi do,” said the sergeant, somewhat amazed.
“Right face! Forward march!”

The colonel sat quietly watching while his orders
were being carried out. The little column of men
trooped across the green towards the west wing,
carrying their stunned comrade. They seemed
scarcely less stunned than he. The sergeant mounted
guard at the 'door.

Correct, thought the colonel.

Then he suddenly swung Black Girl and forced
her directly up the front steps of the hotel into the
main lobby of the Morgan Springs establishment.

There was no one there.

If there had been, he had intended to start a
small indoor cavalry action of his own. He felt
disappointed and a little foolish sitting astride a

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 143

horse under the chandeliers. But he didn’t intend
to tether Black Girl outside for the first wandering
Kanawha Zouave to appropriate, or to advertise
his whereabouts. To the outside world he now
seemed to have vanished.

He dismounted and threw Black Girl’s bridle
over the extended arm of a massive brass statue
of Robin Hood. In one hand Robin Hood held a
card tray and in the other an oil lamp. Thus the
exact atmosphere of Sherwood Forest was nicely
recalled, and the rest of the hotel lobby was —
or rather had been — furnished to correspond.
Someone had taken Robin Hood’s sword, a real
one, once the wonder and envy of all little boys at
the Springs. The colonel remembered wearing it
once himself in a charade.

Indeed, the Crystal Palace rusticity of the lobby
had long been famed and thought elegant in four
states around. But no one would have recognized
the room now. Its grotesque min was strange even
to the colonel, who was more than familiar with its
erstwhile glories. The long mirrors painted with
scenes of forest revelry and woodland lakes haunted
by swains and swans were starred by bullets,
shattered and smashed. A pair of filthy trousers
hung gibbet-like from a wrecked chandelier. The
safe had been blown open. The giant, calf-bound
ledgers of the establishment had been dragged
out and lay torn and littered about, “illustrated”

144 ACTION AT AQUILA

with scenes of enormous dalliance by one of hell’s
most copious artists. The effect was a visual stink.
The disembowelled stuffing of furniture and the
skeletons of crippled chairs that seemed to have
cried in vain for mercy spoke of a certain wicked
patience or a primordial barbarian rage in their
ravishers. And all this was contrasted in the
colonel’s mind with the politeness, the decorum,
the elegance which he had last beheld in this
room — before the war.

Mr. Duane, the proprietor of the place, was,
the colonel recalled, an ardent secessionist. Well,
secession had come! Probably Mr. Duane had
not expected that one-half of his own state would
secede from the other half — with such violent
effects on his hotel lobby. Nevertheless, the colonel
was by no means pleased. He loathed the work
of gueriillas to begin with, and the fine specimen
of obscene anarchy amid which he had just tethered
his horse filled him with rage. It was not a blind
rage this time. It was a calm one. There was some-
thing crystalline and icy about it.

The silence in the place was oppressive. He was
at a loss as to just where “the bridal suite,” alleged
by Sergeant Killykelly to be the abode of Sergeant
Smith, might be. The hotel was a large one, ramb-
ling into several wings. He dismounted and took
both his revolvers from their holsters and stood
listening. Outside a turkey gobbled. It reminded

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 145

him of the erstwhile voluble and effusive conversa-
tion of the pompous proprietor. Where, by the
way, was Mr. Duane? Then at some distance down
one of the corridors he heard a woman laugh.

It might have been the ghost of laughter from
old times supplied by his memory, he thought.
But then he heard it again. There was something
sinister about it. It came now quite clearly, appar-
ently from a window in the east wing; and the lady
had certainly been drinking — was drinking. The
rumble of a man’s voice joined in.

He walked down the corridor as quietly as he
could, sticking close to the wall. One of his Colts
he tucked into his belt. It was dark in the corridor.
The doors of open rooms he stepped by swiftly.
They were all empty. Presently he approached a
small vestibule. The light streamed into it from the
side entrance, a door half-dragged off its hinges. On
the other side a flight of steps led to the upper story.

Seated by a small desk formerly used by the
porter was a man in a “uniform” which only a
minstrel show would have regarded as military.
He slept with his mouth open, tilted back in his
chair against the porter’s desk. At his feet lay a
rifle and an empty bottle of, to judge by the odour,
gin. In the regions upstairs there was a sudden out-
burst of lively conversation; several people seemed
to be arguing. The laughter of the woman floated
down again. It died away in an ugly giggle.

Ka

146 ACTION AT AQUILA

The colonel stepped forward and moved the
rifle away gingerly with his foot. The “sentry”
made no response. Finally he picked up the weapon
and put it in a broom closet where it seemed to
belong. Then he went over, and seizing the man
by the back of his collar, led him, still sleeping,
to a rear door with a key in it. He opened the door.
A long flight of servants’ steps with a skylight
over a laundry roof near the bottom was revealed.

Splendid, the colonel decided. He had the feeling
that the architect had been both clairvoyant and
obliging. He poised the specimen of Kanawha
Zouave just at the brink of that long flight of steps.
All he had to do was to let go the man’s collar.
Gravity did the rest. The colonel stared entranced.

The man’s head drooped to his shoes. He did
a somersault. He flew straight. He bounded from
a landing. He did a loop. He soared triumphantly
— and disappeared with a soul-satisfying smash
through the skylight. Upstairs, the lady who had
been giggling screamed. The colonel locked the
door and pocketed the key.

All those in the room upstairs would now be
looking out the window to see what the crash was
about, he thought. He took the stairs on the
opposite side of the vestibule in a few strides —
and found himself in a corridor of considerable
length that still had its heavy carpet.

This was somewhat disconcerting as he had

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I47

supposed that the room he was about to enter,
judging by the voices, was just at the top of the
stairs. It wasn’t. It would have to be approached
down the corridor. The little vestibule below had
acted as a kind of sound-box that had made the
voices seem much nearer than they were. He was
alone. There was no telling who, or how many,
might be in the room. And his success depended
upon surprise. He stepped hastily behind the half-
open door of a linen closet, and for the first time
that day stopped to reconnoitre.

Evidently the noise he had made on the stairs
had not alarmed anyone. The voices in the room
continued as before. But he could hear them now
quite plainly.

“Ah guess he’s knocked cold, er de laundry doh’s
locked,” said a feminine voice, the tones of which
sounded muffled but like those of a coloured girl.
“Anyhow, he ain’t come out yet. Ah reckon he
cain’t.” Here a hiccough received the tribute of
a giggle.

“Don’t tell me no more about that dern fool,”
replied an unpleasant and rasping man’s voice in
an exasperated tone. “When a sentry on juty
gits so hog drunk he falls clean through a transom
in the roof of the house he’s gyardin’, I leave him
lay. Thash what I do! I leave him lay! I’ll hev
dishipline around here, I will! Now, you gel, you
come away from that window. You quit ’sposin’

148 ACTION AT AQUILA

you-ah pusson. Do you want the hull town to see
you thataway?”

“Ah don’ mind,” said the girl, and giggled.

The man swore bitterly. “Great . . . ”

From the crack in the door, through which
the colonel had been looking while this conver-
sation was going on, most of the stage for the dreary
drama he had overheard — but not all the actors
in it — was visible.

For at the end of about fifty feet of dim corridor
he was looking up a couple of steps through a
pillared arch into the long perspective of a brilliantly
lit room. There were apparently windows along one
side of it, since five long panels of sunlight fell
slanting across the apartment, swarming with
motes of dust. At the far end of the room, half-lost
in the shadows of disarranged portieres that now
and then flapped in the wind, stood the full-length
portrait of Eugenie, Empress of the French. At
first glance, owing to the distance and the trickery
of sunlight and shadow, the colonel had thought
this incredibly arrayed woman was actually in the
room; that the voice of the girl proceeded from her.
This confused and ventriloquial association had
occupied his mind only a few seconds, but it had
been a peculiarly disconcerting one, and had kept
him glued to his crack in the door weak with
astonishment. His amusement at his own expense
upon realizing that “Giggles” must be sitting in

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I49

one of the windows, invisible from where he stood,
was equally great.

But the “voice of a coloured girl” and the Empress
Eugenie were not the only persons in the room.

Draped upon an elaborately carved and curved
sofa upholstered in burning red velvet sprawled
the form of a powerful, bearded man with his hands
behind his head and his muddy cowhide boots
cocked up on the opposite end of the couch. To
punctuate his remarks, he from time to time made
vicious jabs at the upholstery with his sharp heels.
A ragged kepi was cocked down over his face to
shield his eyes from the sunlight, and it was from
under the visor of this once-military headpiece that
his drawling and complaining profanity proceeded.

“. . . Great Christ in the Mountains I Em boss of
this yere Morgan Springs or ain’t I ? Em I your law-
ful commandin’ officer, young man, or ain’t I?” he
demanded, sitting up suddenly and producing from
behind the sofa a jug which he deftly swung over
his forearm by one thumb and applied to his mouth.

The musical diminuendo from the jug for a
moment effectively interrupted him. The motes
in the sunlight now seemed to be dancing to the
tune of a gurgling flute.

“Answer me!” roared the man, putting the jug
down and his hand to his throat. Under the impact
of the fiery corn liquor his frame seemed visibly
to expand. “Em I or ain’t I?”

I50 ACTION AT AQUILA

This last question, like those preceding it, was
hurled in a bullying manner at the pathetic and
yet somehow dauntless figure of a young “soldier”
who stood erect, heels rigidly together, before the
man on the sofa. The boyish solemnity of his fine,
clear face, the mouth of which was still childish,
an air of trying to do his duty while overwhelmed
with chagrin, touched the colonel to the heart.
Quite evidently here was the innocent and be-
wildered subject of much evil mirth.

The youth hitched uneasily and then, recollect-
ing himself, came to attention again.

“You air, sir,” said he.

“Air what?” roared the ruffian on the couch.

“You air my lawful, commandin’ officer,”
replied the boy almost inaudibly.

“Say it again, and yer come to salute when yer
say it,” insisted his tormentor.

At this the lad drew a sword from a thong in
his belt and came to the “sabre salute.” He stood
there rigidly, the polished blade glowing yellow
in the sunlight. The colonel goggled. The sword was
of brass. He recognized it. Years and years ago he
had once for a proud moment of boyhood worn it
himself. It was Robin Hood’s sword.

The girl in the window began to titter in a
peculiarly irritating way. Evidently the farce was
being staged for her benefit, she thought.

“But who air you?” continued the man.

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 151

“I’m officer of the night,” replied the boy,
still saluting.

At this the giggles in the window became con-
tinuous and the man had to lie back on the sofa
again to laugh. The colonel took advantage of
this to emerge quietly from behind his door and
to advance silently up the hall, pistol in hand.
If only the planks didn’t creak under the thick
carpet! He went gingerly.

“Recite the juties of yer office,” said the man,
cocking his boots on the sofa again.

“ Ter take charge of this town an’ all of Sergeant
Smith’s property in view. Ter walk the streets in
a military manner and report the presence of any
pretty gels to Sergeant Smith . . .” The young
voice died away as though its owner could not
remember the rest of the rigmarole.

“And what else?” demanded Sergeant Smith,
sitting up.

The colonel paused where he was, only a few
paces from the arch, but still in the darkness of
the corridor.

“Ter do whatever Sergeant Smith says,” said
the boy.

Somehow the colonel had the inspiration that
his exact moment was about to come.

“All right,” said Sergeant Smith, “then do
what I say. Thar’s a pretty gel a-settin’ in the
winder over thar. Kiss her.”

152 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Never mind doing that,” said the colonel.

His voice, speaking suddenly out of the shadows
of the corridor, seemed to have suspended time in
the sunlit room.

The girl stopped giggling. The boy stood trans-
fixed. Sergeant Smith sat on the sofa with his jaw
open — left hanging, so to speak, in mid-air, while
he stared down the steps into the dark hall. To
his somewhat befuddled view, as the colonel
came up the steps with a levelled weapon, the
whole archway of the room contrived to turn
into one large cannon of barrel like calibre, pointing
exclusively at him. It was this vision rather than
the obscure dictates of a troubled conscience
which caused him to call upon the name of his
Saviour and to reach for heaven at the same
time.

“That’s right,” said the colonel, as he came
into the room, “keep ’em up.” Out of the corner
of one eye he took in the apartment.

The girl was crouching back in one of the deep
windows, half behind a curtain. She had nothing
on but a red petticoat, and not much of that.
She was almost white, he observed.

“Sit down, son,” said the colonel to the “officer
of the night.”

With a look of surprised relief the young fellow
took the place of his late commanding officer on
the sofa. For a moment he sat there as though

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 1 53

revolving in his mind the possibilities of his
deliverance. He looked at the colonel. He looked
up at the long, bearded figure of Sergeant Smith,
whose hands were now tremblingly pointed at
the ceiling, and laughed. He laughed aloud, and a
little hysterically.

There was something subtly ludicrous about
Sergeant Smith. His feet were too small for his
bulk, for one thing. They were cruel little feet.
He swayed on them while his eyes wandered
towards a near-by table where a belt with a holster
lay sprawling.

“Never mind that,” said the colonel. “Keep
’em up and stand still, or I’ll let the whisky out
of you.”

“ Man, I won’t move a muscle,” replied the
man. “But I cain’t stand here forever.”

“Son,” said the colonel, “fetch a chair for Mr.
Smith. A good stout one.”

The boy on the sofa got up obediently and
brought the chair.

“Put it in front of him with the back this way,”
said the colonel, “and stand over there.”

“About face,” said the colonel to his prisoner.
This manoeuvre started the boy laughing once
more.

“Sit down, Mr. Smith, and keep your hands up,”
ordered the colonel. The girl in the window began
to giggle again at this. Smith swore.

154 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

“Now, son,” said the colonel, “go and fetch
me some curtain cords. Be smart!”

At this point Mr. Smith seemed inclined to
demur, and the colonel was forced to press the
cold muzzle of his Colt against the back of the man’s
neck. It was fortunate that he did so, for as the
young man approached the window to get the
curtain cord the girl gave a loud scream.

“I ain’t a-goin’ to kiss yuh,” said the boy. “I
ain’t partial to coloured gels, like him.”

Mr. Smith wriggled.

The girl, however, was now completely panic-
stricken. She modestly and drunkenly attempted
to clothe herself more fully — in a curtain — and
in doing so brought the heavy pole, amply weighted
with brass knobs, down on her head. This, to her,
mysterious attack from above routed her, and she
fled like a cackling hen in red petticoats through
a door at the far end of the room.

“That’ll fix you,” said Smith. “She’ll tell ’em.”

“Bring the cords,” said the colonel. “Now, Mr.
Smith, put your arms behind the chair.

“I’d tie him firmly, young fellow. You know you
laughed at him,” the colonel continued, while the
lad lashed and knotted Mr. Smith’s hands behind
him to the slatted back of the chair.

“You can trust me for that,” said the boy.
“I ain’t takin’ no chances. He’s the meanest
Melungeon bastard that ever came out o’ the hills.”

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 155

Mr. Smith confirmed this view of his character
and doubtful family antecedents by a burst of
profanity that achieved lyric eloquence. That,
however, did not prevent his feet from being
bound firmly to the chair, while a cord was also
passed about his middle.

He sat there now in a kind of “apoplexy” com-
pounded of surprise, chagrin, whisky, consternation,
and fury. Tassels from the curtain cords with which
he was bound hung all over him as though a
madman had adorned himself as “General of
Generals.” So amazing was the grotesque appear-
ance of this piece of semi-military and bearded
upholstery that the colonel motioned to his young
collaborator in the masterpiece to remain seated
in the window, where he had ensconced himself,
while he sat down on the sofa to admire his handi-
work. The profile of Mr. Smith, he observed, was
not noticeably intellectual.

“Smith,” said he, “how long have you been the
boss at Morgan Springs?”

Mr. Smith’s reply to this was to give three long
and peculiar whistles that were exceedingly
shrill.

Outside, there was complete silence. The sun-
light continued to stream through the windows.

“We’ve been here three weeks, sir,” said the lad
by the window. The colonel waved to him to keep
quiet. Mr. Smith whistled again, more shrilly.

X56 ACTION AT AQUILA

“They’re all dead, Smith,” said the colonel.
“I shot them all just before I came in.”

“You shot them houn’ dawgs! You did?” said
Smith. “You, you . . .!”

“Never mind that,” said the colonel.

“So that’s what all the ruction was about. I
thought the boys was just organizin’ a nigger
hunt for fun out on the common. An’ now all them
lovely dawgs is dade!” To the colonel’s vast
surprise, Mr. Smith burst into tears.

The colonel utilized this moment of noble grief
to take Mr. Smith’s belt and holster up from the
table, where they had been thrown, and to buckle
them about his waist above his own.

“God damn yer soul to hell,” said Mr. Smith.

“The same to you, sir,” said the colonel as he
walked over to what had once been a beautifully-
appointed ladies’ writing desk and sat down. He
beckoned to the young man to join him.

“What time do the pickets that are watching
the roads come in?” he asked in a tone too low
to reach the prisoner’s ears.

“The ‘blockaders,’ you mean?” said the boy.
“Why, they come in ’long about sundown fer
grub. They change the guard then.”

“Good! Gould you get by them?” he asked. “I
want you to carry a message to the Union troops
stationed at Hancock.”

“I kin git by, all right,” replied the boy; “they

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I57

know me, and I kin tell ’em I’m riding fer him,
over there.”

“Then I’m going to trust you,” said the colonel.
“You kin do that,” said the lad.

Looking at him, the colonel thought he could.
He opened the drawer and rummaged for paper.
There were old plume holders, steel pen stubs,
odd bits of stationery, and other rubbish in the
drawer from which a faint odour of ladies’ scented
notepaper still exhaled. He pulled out a torn
sheet of paper. “Dear Mimsy — ” ran a fine little
copper-plate hand:

I promised to tell you how I liked being mar-
ried, and should have written to you ages ago,
but I have been very busy — being married. And
I like it! Three months seems an age (one does
not really change by being married) since we
last rode out to the old “Hermitage” together
and had one of our good gossips. Goodness,
how I miss them and you, you dear old goosy!
I suppose Richmond is full of fever and teething
babes as usual. Mine will be this time next year
I hope. There! You see my great news is out,
so don’t tell it to a soul! Oh! Mimsy I

The Springs this year is very gay. I am still
dancing. Yesterday Mrs. Chestnut gave a recep-
tion in the Ladies’ Parlour, now elegantly
refurbished and called the Empress Eugenie

158 ACTION AT AQUILA

Apartments. Ronnie Lee was there, the Beverleys,
your friend Jack as gallant as usual. A Captain
Crittendon of the U.S.T.E. and his wife, a
charming Englishwoman (he married her while
attache in London), celebrated their . . . ing
. . . anniversary . . . dance, ... ice cream,
champagne, and fire-works. You ask what to
wear. My dear, magenta has quite gone out this
summer. Skirts are bigger than . . . and nicest
of all une chemise de nuit, batiste et dentelle . . .

and the torn letter ended in mid-air, somewhere
in the summer of one of the 1850’s.

She had been here — happy then!

A great longing for that happy, waltzing, music-
box time came over him. He roused himself, looking
around at the frightful mess in the once “elegant
and genteel” ladies’ parlour; at the ruffian tied
in the chair ; at the smooth copy of Winterhalter’s
Eugenie, looking at the present with disdainful,
sloping shoulders and a weary smile. The combined
reality and incredibility of what had happened to
his world, the unlikelihood of the present moment,
the complete fracture of the past in its own familiar
surroundings almost stopped him . . .

It was with some difficulty that he finally brought
himself to rummage through the drawer again, find
a blank sheet of paper, and pen a brief description
of his situation with an appeal for instant help to

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE I59

the commanding officer of the federal troops at
Hancock, Maryland.

“Can you get a horse?” he asked finally, folding
the note.

“No, sir, but I kin find me a mule,” said the lad,
who had been standing at strict attention all the
while.

“Hurry,” said the colonel. “It’s only a few
miles. Try to be back before sundown. And, son,”
he added, “iff were you I’d put back that sword
where you got it.”

The boy turned scarlet.

“It was him made me wear it,” he said, angrily
jerking a thumb at Smith. “I knowed better. I
wanted to be a real soldier. I tried. I did!”

“I know,” said the colonel. “Leave him to me,
and get that message to Hancock.”

The boy saluted elaborately and darted out of
the room.

The sun went behind a cloud and the room
suddenly seemed dark and lonely. The litter in
it was more than awful. Smith and his lady must
have been living in it for some time, to judge by
the unemptied slop jars borrowed from other
rooms, the inconceivable number of empty bottles,
and a pile of valuable articles ranging from clocks
to silverware, evidently fancied by Mr. Smith,
who seemed to have the taste of a jackdaw for
anything that shone or glittered.

l60 ACTION AT AQ,CJILA

The colonel got up, and walking over to him,
gave an extremely expert demonstration of how
to tie almost anyone permanently in a chair. The
curtain cords were only covered with silk ; they were
good hemp underneath. Mr. Smith whined a
little, cursed, and finally began to negotiate — -
with threats.

“I kin make it wuth you-ah while to leave me
go. I’m sheriff of this county. Thar’s a lot o’ friends
o’ mine round about. They’re fer me. Look out!
Ouch! I ain’t got no feelin’ left in my hands.
Let up!”

“What did you keep the dogs for. Smith?”

“Fer huntin’ niggers mostly. I used to pick up
a right sizable passel o’ change thataway. Now
look here, you’ve got my gel and my plunder,
what more do . .

“I’m going to court-martial you, Smith. I’ll
send you to a Massachusetts regiment down
Frederick way. The officers are all abolitionists.”

A bad vista opened up before Mr. Smith.
“Now listen ter reason, kunnel, fer God’s sake.”

“Never mind that,” said the colonel. “I’ll leave
you here for a while to think it over. Don’t make any
noise.”

“I’m goin’ ter be sick,” said Mr. Smith. And he
was, very.

The colonel went to the window and looked out.
Across a wide space of lawn he could see Sergeant

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE l6l

Killykelly and another man on guard before the
door of the west wing. No one else was in sight.
The village looked deserted. So far, so good.

He went down to the lobby and much to his
relief found Black Girl where he had left her.

Robin Hood had his sword again.

He mounted Black Girl and, giving his old
friend the statue a mock salute, with a restrained
triumph in it, he rode down the steps of the hotel
with great solemnity as though he always came out
of hotels that way. But he was thinking hard. It
might be several hours before the troops from
Hancock came in, provided the boy delivered
the message.

Meanwhile?

Meanwhile he was going to be czar of Morgan
Springs !

He rode over to Sergeant Killykelly. He observed
with great satisfaction that the arms of the Kanawha
Zouaves were stacked on the road where they had
last been dismissed. That was a good sign.

“Sergeant,” said he, “ where did you get your
drill?”

“Oi served two enlistments in the U.S. regulars,
sor, before the war.”

“All of them?”

“Well, not all of the last enlistment, sor. You
see ...”

“I’ll forget that,” said the colonel.

La

162 action at aquila

“Yis, sor. All of the drill they ever had oi gave

them. They was raised in the hills above Morgan-
town to jine Gineral Averell’s corps in the Valley.
It was that divil Smith persuaded them to stop
off an’ occupy Morgan Springs en route. He’s a
politician, he is, and he got himself elected sergeant.
It’s the life of a monarch they’ve been leadin’
ever since. Oi protested, oi did.”

“I’ve no doubt,” said the colonel. “Well,

sergeant, there’ll be a detachment of United

States troops here very shortly, and I’m leaving
you and ...”

“Johnson, sir. He’s reliable. He wouldn’t brush
a harse-fly off his neck, if oi told him not to.”

“I remember. Well, I’m leaving you and
Johnson on guard at this door and the orders are
that no one is to come out. Not a man! No going
to the privies. They stay in, or ”

The colonel reached down and gave Sergeant
Smith’s pistol, belt, and holster to Sergeant Kill y-
kelly. “Use that, if necessary,” said he.

Sergeant Killykelly saluted. Colonel Franklin
rode across the green, wondering whether Sergeant
Killykelly would put a shot through his back.
He rather thought not, and the risk had to be taken.
He stopped before the well-remembered pro-
prietor’s house, where he thought he had observed
signs of life.

“Mr. Duane,” he called. “Mr. Duane.” The

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 163

door opened cautiously after a while, a few inches.
“Gome out, I want to see you, sir.”

Evidently the entrance had been barricaded.
He could hear some heavy articles of furniture
being moved inside. At last the door was flung
open. It was the girl he had last seen sitting nearly
naked in the window and giggling at Sergeant
Smith who came out.

He gawked at her in astonishment.

She was dressed in excellent, quiet taste. She
might almost have been a Quaker’s daughter.
He had never seen anyone more sober and lady-
like — almost demure. From her very nice tortoise-
shell snood over her tightly brushed and slightly
curled hair to her spotless linen cuffs she radiated
black alpaca gentility. And yet her features and that
tell-tale olive flush in her cheeks were the same. It
was admirable, he thought. He almost winked at her.

“Well, sir?” she said.

“Tell Mr. Duane I want to see him,” he said.

“Mr. Duane isn’t feeling so well — lately,” she
said hesitatingly, with only a trace of accent. “ We’ve
been having a good deal of trouble about here,
and . . .”

“I’ve no doubt,” said the colonel. “That’s over
now. Tell Mr. Duane it’s Nat Franklin — the
Pennsylvania Franklins who used to have the
‘Magnolia Cottage’ summers. He’ll remember.”

“Oh!” said she, smiling, and went in.

164 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

“Well, well, well! Well, well, well — well, well!”
said the well-remembered voice of the proprietor
of Morgan Springs, sounding from the hall in a
kind of continuous gobble. “ My, I’m glad to see
you, glad to see you . . . ” He stopped suddenly
on the porch. “Even if you are in a Yankee uniform,
Nat Franklin.” He held out his hand.

The colonel could hardly keep from laughing,
good-naturedly, at the memorable idiosyncrasies
and affectations of Mr. Merryweather Duane. His
pomposities were endless. A great reader of Sir
Walter Scott, he was also a confirmed admirer of
William E. Burton, the noted actor and comedian,
whom in the old days he had scarcely ever missed
seeing every theatrical season in Philadelphia or
New York. A glorious visit to Mr. Burton’s estate
on Long Island had finally “settled” Mr. Duane.
Fie had ended by trying to be Mr. Burton. And like
all such attempts to transfuse character, the result
was curiously artificial, an effect of strained
caricature by poor acting. Add to this a natural
but egregious self-importance on the part of the
man himself, much accentuated by having been
manager and owner of a fashionable resort and
numerous slaves, so that everybody he knew seemed
to take him seriously — and you had the inwardness
of Mr. Duane. Gentility was his hobby, affability
his profession, and chivalry his role. He had uncon-
sciously created “Morgan Springs” as the stage

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 165

for his carefully-assumed character and, as a conse-
quence, he loved it even as his own soul.

So complete a compendium of artificiality could,
indeed, scarcely have existed in nature, if Nature
had not herself accidentally collaborated. Mr.
Duane’s physical appearance, however, enabled,
even aided, him to support his part. A large,
moony face ended in a double chin tending towards
a dewlap. He wore habitually a bright cashmere
shawl with frayed fringes that inevitably suggested
bedraggled wings and plumage. A very round
paunch usually encased in a flaming vest looped
over with watch-chains was supported precariously
by long thin legs in tight trousers. And his speech
with its endless repetitions did resemble a gobble.

It was no accident, therefore, that he had always
been known behind his back, to both servants and
clientele, as “Turkey” or “Turk” Duane.

“Come in, come in, come in. Come in and
sit, sir. Sir, come in and sit down. This afflicted
town has been delivered by you. By you! By no
one else. I saw you from the window. A noble
deed, a deed of derring-do. A feat of arms to be
remembered in song. Told by bards, sir. The
slaughter of fierce beasts. The ...”

There was no stopping him. No one had ever
succeeded. For half an hour the colonel sat on the
porch and listened to the long tale of woe of the
conquest and occupation of Morgan Springs by

l66 ACTION AT AQUILA

Sergeant Smith and his gang, couched in the archaic
and heraldic language of “Turk” Duane.

Meanwhile the colonel kept one eye on Sergeant
Killykelly, and noted with the other, as it were,
that various other houses in the village were also
coming to life. People began to peep out, to come
out, to begin to visit from yard to yard. Evidently a
state of siege had existed. “Neither the sanctity
of property nor the chastity of our noble women,
descended from the Norman race, sir,” said Mr.
Duane, “were thought to be safe. In fact,” he
insisted, putting his hand up to his mouth, “I
am told that even the latter has been violated.”
The colonel did not confirm this, as he might have.

“And what brings you to our humble native
heath?” gobbled Mr. Duane, posing the same
question in four different ways without waiting
for an answer. The colonel’s confessedly sentimental
reasons for his visit touched Mr. Duane to the quick.

“You shall have the best we can do under the
circumstances, the lamentable circumstances. The
Springs have never closed, sir, never. They never
will close. They will always be open. You shall
have supper in the big dining-room. Agatha!” he
called. And despite all the colonel’s protestations,
arrangements were made by Mr. Duane for supper
and a room — as though the war had never been.

“No, sir, the Springs have never closed. They will
always be open. Always!” insisted Mr. Duane.

A MAD DOG INTERLUDE 167

But when he saw the interior of the hotel he sat
down and wept.

The colonel went to his room, from the window
of which he could keep an eye on the green below
and on Black Girl tied close by his door. He sat
there cold with anxiety. How long Killykelly could
keep his men in hand was a question.

Outside on the green old Judge Washington could
be seen standing by the gate of his front yard giving
directions to his blacks. They were burying the dogs
about the grape roots in his arbour. A good many
people were now hurrying to and fro, apparently
ignorant of how precarious was their deliverance.
About six o’clock five army wagons rumbled onto
the oval and disgorged as many squads of infantry
in charge of a lieutenant. The conquest and occupa-
tion of Morgan Springs were complete. The colonel
gave his directions, saw Black Girl stabled, and took
a shave. In the hurry he forgot Sergeant Smith,
temporarily.

That gentleman, seated alone in the growing
shadows of the great Empress Eugenie apartment,
gave a profane exclamation of relief as he saw “his
gel” sneak quietly into the room. She held one
hand behind her back.

“I thought you’d never come, honey,” said he.
“Godamighty, what kept yer so long? What you
got for me there? Somethin’ tasty?”

“Shut up,” said the girl. “I’ll show yuh.”

CHAPTER VIII

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH

More battles have been lost by fatigue
than won by forethought. The colonel was no iron
man. The events of the past twenty-four hours had
drawn heavily upon his reserves of energy. Since
the night before last he had enjoyed small sleep.
The afternoon had been one of intense excitement
and anxiety, which he had had to support with
complete outward calm. Hence, the arrival of
Lieutenant Donald Sweeney with a platoon of the
23rd Illinois Infantry had brought him unspeakable
relief.

He delivered the keys of Morgan Springs to the
pleasant young Irishman from Chicago with enthu-
siasm, and a carte-blanche order to take over the
place and run it. As it was, the trick had barely
been turned. A few minutes more and he must
have ceased to be the one-man garrison of a hostile
town.

Perhaps, if he had been more explicit in his
directions to the lieutenant, several things would
not have happened later. But he wasn’t. He was
tired, and he went to his room, which Mr. Duane’s
darkies had prepared for him; washed up, and sat

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 169

down in a large, stuffed rocking-chair to wait for
supper.

A thousand things kept running through his
mind while he rocked, and nodded, and rocked.
Time lapsed. But he slept uneasily.

The death of Jim Mulligan, the brilliant colonel
of the 23rd Illinois, killed only a few weeks before at
Winchester, came back to haunt him. He had been
very fond of Mulligan — whose men had enthusias-
tically loved him. The 23rd Illinois was one of the
finest-drilled volunteer regiments in the service, a
marvellous living machine, a perfect and keen
instrument to enforce the national will. (So was
the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry.) How hard that
was to achieve, he knew. Mulligan had done it.
Now he was gone — and how many others?

They seemed in the shadows of the room as he
sat, half-asleep, half-dreaming, to be near him; he
felt himself one of their doomed company gathered
about a dark campfire. Somehow the face of the
young soldier who had carried the message for him
that afternoon was there too. It shone in the dark-
ness like an illuminated cameo, delicate and fine,
then horribly scarred, blotted out. What a pity that
one so young should be there in the darkness among
the dead ! A feeling of infinite mourning, a sense of
irretrievable, irreparable loss, and pity overtook
his sleep and merged into a nightmare of sheer
charnel horror that wakened him and brought him

170 ACTION AT AQUILA

to his feet standing, shaken to the life. Something
horrible had happened. He knew it!

It was some moments before he could shake off
this inner conviction of disaster and ghostly trouble.
He went to the washstand and dashed cold water
over his head. He lit the fire and turned up the
lamp. Lord! What time was it? It was dark. Had
Duane forgotten about supper? Why, it was nearly
nine o’clock!

Someone was knocking at the door.

“Come in.” Out of old habit he loosed his
holster flap.

It was Mr. Duane full of apologies, full of
exclamations about how cheerful the room looked,
of explanations why supper was so late. It was to
be in the big dining-room.

Of all places! thought the colonel. He flinched
from what he knew would be the grand loneliness
of that saloon: he and Mr. Duane alone, draped
chandeliers, and all the ghosts of the past diners in
lost summers and muted music floating around.
He became tremendously irritated at Mr. Duane.
The man had invited himself. He would much
rather have had dinner at Duane’s house, or alone
in his own room. But in that desolate dining-room !

Something of the depression of his dream held
over and gripped him all through the strange supper
that evening.

That the Springs had always been open, that

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH X 7 1

they had not been closed, weren’t closed now, and
never would be closed, was still the constant theme
of Mr. Duane. It was evident, indeed, that the
Springs could not be closed without closing Mr.
Duane. And he was out to prove to himself and to
his guest that they were open. He regarded the
colonel as merely the first of a host of patrons about
to descend upon him — after the war was over —
soon. He had opened up the deserted dining-room,
killed the last bit of poultry secreted by his negroes,
searched his sadly-ravaged bins, and had the
dinner cooked by his daughter.

The scene was even worse than the colonel had
anticipated. In the precise centre of the huge,
morguelike dining-room, surrounded by swathed
chandeliers and high, shuttered windows with
catafalque drapings, was one table with a lamp on
it. It alone was brilliantly set and lost in a level
sea of vacant tables and empty chairs. At this
festive board the colonel and his host sat face to
face and tried to converse.

Mr. Duane meant to be affable, heaven knows
he did. The colonel also meant to be polite. He
had pleasant memories of his host, and he pitied
him now. He felt that he should feel grateful for
his entertainment, even though he understood the
reason for so much forced cheer. But their conversa-
tion seemed doomed. Every sally ended upon some
note of further irritation. True Mr. Duane did most

IJ2 ACTION AT AQUILA

of the talking, but the colonel’s attempts to soothe
him and turn the talk into pleasant memories of
the past were disregarded. The voluble little pro-
prietor of the Springs had kept close in his house
during the past few weeks. Like most of the other
people who resided at the Springs continuously, he
had not dared to risk either his person or his
household goods to the tender mercies of the
guerrillas who had settled on the town like a flock
of eagles and buzzards. He had simply remained
barricaded indoors. Consequently, he had had no
idea of the extent to which his hotel had been
wrecked and damaged. A brief glimpse of the lobby
had sickened and outraged him. He was a violent
pro-Southerner, and, without meaning to do so,
he forgot that the colonel was his rescuer. In fact,
he seemed rather to pick on him as the cause of
his misfortunes. For across the table was the
hated blue uniform and the brass buttons with
“U.S.” on them. It was enough. He raved. During
the intervals a scared, barefooted negress brought
in the dishes and shrank back into the boundless
shadows. The meal took on the aspect of a night-
mare feast waited upon by a genie.

Would the United States pay Mr. Duane for his
losses? He put the same question in five ways ten
times over.

Perhaps, the colonel suggested. But Mr. Duane
must remember that the government was aware of

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 1 73

its immortality and sometimes took more than a
mortal time in paying.

At this, despite the uniform and his guest, Mr.
Duane lapsed into treasonable invective. His face
became flushed and he waved his hands. He wished
he might live to see that beast Abe Lincoln crucified
upside down.

“ Come, come,” said the colonel, at once amused
and shocked at this reversal of hanging Jeff Davis
on a sour-apple tree. “Come, come, Mr. Duane,
don’t be so damned apostolic. I’m sure General
Lee, for instance, would never agree with
you.”

“ I don’t know about General Lee, but you can’t
blame me,” shouted Mr. Duane, waving his hands
about at the empty sideboards and deserted tables.
“Look at me! I’m finished! Me, a loyal Virginian,
too!”

“West Virginian; you believe in secession, don’t
you?” corrected the colonel, now pretty angry
himself.

“Virginian!” roared Mr. Duane, pounding the
table violently.

“Everyone to his own loyalties, of course,” said
the colonel. “For my part, I try to deal delicately
with them. Perhaps, under the circumstances, you
would rather have me pay for my entertainment
here tonight in Confederate notes instead of
Yankee greenbacks.”

174 ACTION AT AQUILA

“That ain’t delicate of you,” choked Mr. Duane.
“It sounds to me like just another damned Yankee
trick.” He sat there choking. “A very good evening
to you, Colonel Franklin,” he finally rasped out,
rose, and stalked out of the dining-room, the picture
of hurt pride.

The colonel watched him go without saying any-
thing. Presently he turned to finishing off his brown
Betty and hard sauce alone. In the immense, empty
dining-room the lamp on the colonel’s table seemed
a lighthouse in an ocean of gloom.

“You don’t hev to pay nothin’, ef you don’t
want ter,” said a voice from somewhere.

The colonel rose and thrust his chair back
uneasily. A chuckle from the deep embrasure by
one of the high, draped windows followed.

“Come out of that! ” said the colonel, not a little
nettled. “Let’s have a look at you.”

The youth who had carried the message for him
that afternoon emerged from the shadows and
stood before him, turning a frayed straw hat around
and around in his thin, nervous hands.

“ Oh! ” said the colonel, relenting. “ The officer of
the night, I believe.”

“Yes, sir,” said the lad, colouring violently, “but
I hope you won’t never tell nobody about that. I
delivered your message and I told ’em to hurry.
You oughtenter tell on me.”

“I won’t,” said the colonel, “honour bright!”

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 175

“Oh, thank you, sir,” said the boy gently.

The colonel now took careful stock of him for
the first time.

He was barefoot. He wore a pair of preposterous
nankeens evidently found in the hotel, a ragged
military blouse with a rawhide belt. A huge and
ancient horse pistol, minus its flints, had taken the
place of Robin Hood’s sword. Above this portable
arsenal appeared, on a long thin neck, as stonily
innocent, as freshly boyish, and yet as determined a
young face as the colonel had ever seen.

In fact, there was something peculiarly intrepid
about this youthful apparition in the lamplight.
Even the scarecrow clothes could not conceal the
axelike determination of the youth inside them. If
there was a distinct contradiction between the
clothes and their wearer, just as there was between
his dreamful, grey eyes and his blunt, mountaineer’s
jaw, it was a conflict that had already been quite suc-
cessfully resolved by the wilful young person himself.
As the colonel looked at him he had no doubt of it.

“Well, son,” said he, “what do you propose that
I should do for you?”

“You kin take me whar thar’s fightin’,” said the
boy simply.

“What makes you think I’ll do that?” asked the
colonel, fencing for a little time to consider so direct
and unexpected a proposal. Already he felt on the
defensive.

176 ACTION AT AQUILA

“’Cause I kin tell,” replied the lad. “I was
watchin’ yer this afternoon, an’ I got the second
sight like Mrs. Farfar.”

“Mrs. Farfar?” repeated the colonel, at a loss.

“She’s my mar. I’m William.”

“Oh,” said the colonel, “I see.”

“Cain’t we sit down?” asked William Farfar.
“ W T e’re both white men, I reckon.”

“Pardon me,” said the colonel, “of course, we
can. Suppose you take the late Mr. Duane’s chair.”

“I reckon I will,” murmured William.

Across the table the colonel found himself looking
into a pair of wide grey eyes that regarded him with
a positively mystical solemnity. He could almost
believe they did have the power of second sight.
Contrasted to Mr. Duane’s bloodshot little orbs that
had lately been glaring at him from the same
place, the difference was startling. Mr. Duane
had hardly been able to see his guest through the
mist of his own anger; the eyes now before him
were not only able to see the colonel but seemed to
be looking through him into space beyond. He
stirred uneasily. Something in the all but pathetic
gravity of this youthful face reminded him how he
had last seen it glimmering in his disturbed dream of
a short while before.

Certainly I won’t take him to the front, he
thought. But he said, “ So you want me to take you
South to get shot, eh?”

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 177

A smile lightened the boy’s gravity like sunlight
breaking through a cloud. The whole atmosphere
of the table brightened.

“You cain’t scare me, kunnel,” grinned the boy.
“I’m a-comin’ with you. I jes’ know I am. It’s
boun’ to be so.”

And, curiously enough, the colonel felt that it was.
But he was not going to admit that he did — even to
himself.

“No joking, son,” said he, “if I did take you with
me, you probably wouldn’t come back, you
know.”

“Mrs. Farfar said I wouldn’t,” replied the lad,
“but that’ll be as may be. An’ I might fool the old
woman yet. Ef you’re a real soldier you jes’ take
what comes and you don’t worry about hit, or
much else, fer that matter. That’s no use, once
you’re jined up. That’s the best part of fightin’,
ain’t it?”

“It is,” said the colonel, immensely sympathetic
with this truly soldierly philosophy.

“Well, I could be like that,” said Farfar. “I
could be a real soldier ef I onst hed the chanst, ef I
was really jined up in a real army.”

“Yes, I believe you could,” admitted the colonel
almost inaudibly.

“So you will give me a chanst, won’t you?”
cried the boy eagerly. “Oh, I knowed you would!
When I was a-tyin’ that ar man Smith on the chair

Ma

178 ACTION AT AQUILA

fer you this arternoon I knowed it was the last of
him. ‘I’m through with you,’ I sez. Ain’t none of
the Farfars come back from big fightin’ nohow.
Granper was a Jackson man, and he never come
back from South Car’line, and par was a Unioner
and the secesh got him in Kentucky. And now thar’s
me.”

But the colonel had not heard all of this. A word
or two had just reminded him that unaccountably,
quite unaccountably, he had forgotten something.

“Come,” said he, rising suddenly, “I’ll talk this
over with you tomorrow. Run now to Lieutenant
Sweeney and tell him to meet me in front of the
hotel immediately with two men, and to bring
lanterns. I’ve forgotten something.”

“Was it Smith?” said young Farfar.

The colonel nodded. The lad gave a low whistle
and dashed out.

Now what the devil? thought the colonel as he
hurriedly threaded his way through a host of vacant
tables towards the rear door. He intended to cut
around to the front by the side portico and to meet
the lieutenant and his men there.

Outside, it was quite dark as he stumbled down a
broken step. For a moment the pain of a turned
ankle drove everything from his mind. He manipu-
lated his boot and cursed mentally. Presently it was
better and he got up to go on. Through a near-by
window came a dim light and the clatter of dishes.

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 179

“You gel,” suddenly said a voice he seemed to
recognize, “whar’s that buckhawn knife?”

“Ah ain’t seen him, Miss Ag-atha,” replied the
soft voice of a coloured woman. “’Deed ah ain’t.
Ah cain’t fin’ him when ah set de table foh suppeh.
Dah’s only de foke hya.”

“That’s pa’s best silver-mounted carvin’ set, the
one he used for pussonal visitors, and now the
knife’s gone like everything else round here lately.
Whar you put it?” The woman’s voice rose in a
scream of exasperated inquiry.

“Ah ain’t never seen dat knife dis evenin’, ’foh
Jesus, miss, ah ain’t.”

The sound of a hearty slap followed.

The colonel leaned against the window-sill,
partly to ease his foot and partly out of curiosity.
He was looking into the cavernous kitchen of the
old hotel. A couple of guttering candles and the red
light from the open grate of one stove gave the
place, with its rows of idle ranges and long tables
disappearing into the dark perspective, the air of a
robbers’ cave. Before a sink piled with dirty dishes
stood the coloured woman who had lately waited on
him and Mr. Duane. She was holding her arm with
an expression of extreme pain and cowering before
Mr. Duane’s neatly-dressed daughter, who had a
large butter paddle in her hand.

“ I’ll larn yer ! ” said Miss Duane, and prepared to
swing at the woman again with the paddle. Some-

l80 ACTION AT AQUILA

one came out of the shadows and seized her arm.
It was the girl he had seen in the room with Smith
that afternoon. Seeing the twin daughters of Mr.
Duane thus struggling with each other for a butter
paddle, the colonel wondered that he had not
recognized the truth before. They were so alike —
and so different.

“You leave mah nigger alone,” said Smith’s girl,
pushing her sister Agatha into a corner and twisting
the paddle out of her hand. “And leave me tell
you somethin’, Agatha. Jes’ fergit about that ar
buckhawn knife. Fergit it! See?” She seized her
sister by the shoulders and thrust her face forward
until their noses touched. The colonel heard them
both breathing heavily. From the sink the black
woman gaped at them in astonishment. In the tense
silence the colonel heard his own watch ticking.

It reminded him.

He picked his path carefully and quietly away
from the window and hurried along the portico,
still limping a little. Even a brief glimpse into the
charming sisterly relations of the Duane twins
was sufficient.

The lieutenant and his two men with lanterns
could be seen approaching the front of the hotel.
Young Farfar was leading them. His nankeens
twinkled before the party in the long shadows cast
by the lanterns. The moon was not up yet. Except
for a few lights in the hotel wing being used for a

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH l8l

barracks, the village looked deserted. One lamp
gleamed at the Duanes’. The hotel behind him was
silent as a tomb. He listened. From the open
windows of the room where Smith must be sitting
bound and helpless in the darkness there was not a
sound. Perhaps the man had twisted himself loose,
or — ?

He felt angry with himself for having forgotten
him. Tired as he was, he shivered a little.

“This way, lieutenant,” said he with some
asperity.

“Cornin’, sir.”

The two officers and the men with lanterns now
stood looking up at the gloomy fagade of the
deserted hostelry. A curtain blew out of an open
upstairs window and fell back into the darkness
again.

“Go back to your quarters, young man,” said
the colonel to Farfar. “You’re not needed here.”

The boy looked sadly disappointed, but saluted
cheerfully.

“You’ll not ferget about talkin’ with me to-
morrow, kunnel, will ye?” he asked anxiously.

“Certainly not,” said the colonel — and in the
unpleasant events that followed that night forgot
it forthwith. “Now, good night.”

One of the men chuckled as they went up the
steps into the deserted lobby. “That kid wants to
stick his beak into everything,” he said. “I was

182 action at aquila

tellin’ him only tonight, someday he’ll sure get it

shot off. And ”

“Hold your lantern up,” snapped the lieutenant.

They were standing in the deserted and devas-
tated lobby now. In the semi-darkness the area of
wreckage seemed immense. Robin Hood rose out
of it like a colossus. The trousers on the chandelier
swung in the wind that sighed through the shattered
windows. They stood listening. A rat leaped sud-
denly out of the empty safe and brought a ledger
down after it. Everybody jumped. But no one
laughed. There was something about the place that
made them unconsciously draw a little closer to one
another.

“Fine people, these Kanawha Zouaves!” re-
marked the lieutenant as they tramped down the
hall.

“A credit to the service, undoubtedly,” said the
colonel. “ I trussed up their leader in a chair in one
of the upstairs rooms this afternoon — and forgot
to mention him to you,” he continued. “We’re
getting him now. He’s responsible for all this mess.
But he may not be there. He had friends, he said.”

“Oh, he’ll be there, all right,” said the lieutenant
with all the optimism of a young officer.

The colonel grunted.

“We got a Zouave out of the laundry about an
hour ago. The one you a — you know,” ventured
the lieutenant.

THE ESCAPE OF SERGEANT SMITH 183

“Yes, I know,” said the colonel.

The lieutenant glanced at him with some
admiration, while trying to conceal a smile, and
resumed: “The fellow was putting up an awful
roar. He wasn’t much hurt though. Had sort of a
wig of broken glass. Said he’d fallen through the
skylight.”

“Er — that is correct, I believe,” replied the
colonel. “And you didn’t hear anyone calling
upstairs.”

“Not a sound.”

“That’s strange.”

They stopped now for a moment in the little
vestibule.

“ Smith ! ” roared the colonel. There was no reply.

In the hallway upstairs the open door of the linen
closet groaned and creaked in the wind. A cold
draught came down the stairway. The colonel now
led the way anxiously. In the big room ahead under
the swirl of the lanterns, Eugenie seemed to curtsy
ironically from the steps of her throne. He snatched
a lantern, advanced, and held it up.

Smith was still in the chair.

But Colonel Franklin had never seen anyone so
contorted. With one tremendous motion the man
must have tried to burst all his bonds at once. He
had thrown his left shoulder out of joint and that
side of his chest stuck out as though he were present-
ing it for a blow. In the very centre of this knob the

184 ACTION AT AQUILA

handle of a silver-mounted, buckhorn carving
knife was thrust home to the hilt.

The colonel stood there pondering on how fatal
it was to forget.

“Cover him up,” he said at last. “Tear down a
curtain and get the poor devil out of sight. You can
attend to him tomorrow.”

The men looked much relieved. Burial by night
is always grisly.

“It’s funny,” said the lieutenant as they went
downstairs. “I’ve slept on a battle-field with them
all around me. But I wouldn’t sleep in this hotel
tonight for my captaincy. My God, did you see that
face?”

“I did,” said the colonel curtly.

“Murdered, sir?”

“Undoubtedly! Executed, you might say,” he
added. “Now come with me, lieutenant. I have
some instructions and information to leave with
you about straightening out the affairs of this
unfortunate village. Lord, I came here this after-
noon to renew pleasant old memories” — he
shrugged his shoulders as though trying in vain to
cast a weight off them — “and I’m getting out of
here as fast as I can. That is, before sunrise to-
morrow!”

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS

So the colonel roused Black Girl next
morning in the grey light of dawn. He had made up
his mind to leave Morgan Springs before any
further complications arose. Things were beginning
to happen to him, and he was determined if
possible to tie at least a temporary Gordian knot
in the string of events. On the whole, the less
said about yesterday’s affairs in official reports, the
better. He was on leave, and officers on leave were
not supposed to take towns — at least not all by
themselves. “We’ll let young Lieutenant Sweeney
and his wild Irishmen of the Twenty-third take
care of ’em here from now on. Won’t we, old
girl?” said he, and cinched the girth of the
mare so tight by way of emphasis that she
stomped and blew her nose in protest. The
colonel laughed. He was an advocate of tight
girths for the cavalry.

Roused by the racket in the stall below, Mr.
William Farfar peered down through the planks
of the hayloft where he had snugly been spending
the night, and watched his friend of the evening
before depart.

l86 ACTION AT AQUILA

The disappointment was bitter. Tears stung his
eyes. Reckon he jes’ plumb fergot me, he thought.
But ain’t no Farfar goin’ to beg to be took. By way
of morning ablutions, he drew a ragged military
sleeve across his eyes, and began to whistle thought-
fully. Presently the whistle died away. The clip of
Black Girl’s hoofs at a brisk trot diminished in the
distance — but not in the direction he had expected.

Now why’s he took the North Mountain road?
the boy wondered.

The colonel had his reasons. He had originally
intended to return by way of Hancock, catch the
B. & O. cars there for Harpers Ferry and then ride
up the Shenandoah roads by way of Berryville into
the Valley about Luray. That would have been the
most careful procedure.

But he was not feeling particularly cautious.
The events of yesterday had made him, if anything,
overconfident. Lieutenant Sweeney had told him
only the night before of Early’s attempt to surprise
Sheridan at Little North Mountain on the twelfth
of October. According to the lieutenant, the news
had come hot off the wires at Hancock with the
report that the Union cavalry had kept the enemy
on the jump as far south as Mount Jackson and the
South Fork of the Shenandoah. That was miles and
miles up the Valley. And if the lieutenant was right,
the roads as far as Winchester and even Strasburg
would, as the colonel put it, “be in the United

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 187

States again.” How permanently, he thought rue-
fully enough, no one can say.

Nevertheless, he decided to risk it. He could avoid
unnecessary explanations about affairs at Morgan
Springs to the authorities at Hancock and a dirty
railroad journey to boot simply by cutting across the
mountains to Martinsburg and riding on to Win-
chester from there. It was rough mountain country-
over the Big North and Flint ridges; stony going,
no doubt. But, to tell the truth, that was the attrac-
tion of it. He was eager to shake the ill odour of
yesterday out of his hair and to enjoy a genuine
stretch of wilderness, as wild country as one could
meet anywhere on the continent.

The air was bright and tonic. It had been
exceedingly dry all that summer and autumn. The
first really heavy frost of the season, even in the
mountains, had fallen only the night before.
The road was silvery with it; the grasses crisp.
As he breasted the first brief ascent, the tumbling
ranges of Big North Mountain burned and seethed
before him with all the unpaintable and untellable
glories of the North American fall. He rose in his
stirrups and held up his hand to salute so
majestic and flaming a spectacle — and then turned
for a moment to look back at Morgan Springs.

He would like to remember it as it had been in
his boyhood. From a distance some of its old charm
remained. The red roofs lost in the scarlet maples

l88 ACTION AT AQUILA

huddled together comfortably, it seemed. A faint
haze of smoke was coming from Mr. Duane’s
chimney. What trouble there would be today in
that house! He wondered what Sweeney would do
about the girl. Try her? Well, he was glad he would
not have to be there to testify — that it was not his
responsibility.

He was sorry now that he had turned aside to
renew old memories at the Springs. The results
had been unexpected. It probably served him right
for having been sentimental. But he would like
to have had old Duane see him off as he did in the
old days, after vacation was over, when he was a
schoolboy going back to Unionville Academy near
West Chester. Why, he could still hear him!

“Good day, sir, good-bye, good-bye. In a word,
farewell. A pleasant journey to you. In the polite
French tongue, adieu. In the noble Spanish, adios.
That is to say, God-speed. In brief, farewell.”

“So long,” said the colonel regretfully, pulling
himself back into the present of 1 864 and turning
to breast the difficult slopes before him.

Years before, he had come part way up into these
hills on a picnic in the family carryall. But he was
soon past the old picnic grounds, “Burnt Cabin
Spring,” where he had first tasted champagne, he
remembered — and laughed now. Since then armies
had passed this way. All the cabins in the clearings
were now burnt cabins. It was bushwhacking

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 189

country, but there were no more bushwhackers.
Even on this, the one habitable side of the mountain,
for two years the place had been literally a solitary
wilderness. McClellan and Pegram, Wise, Hunter,
Averell, Lee, and Garnett — and a half-dozen other
generals on both sides — had seen to that. Man
could no longer exist there, because it was the
borderland between Virginia and West Virginia.
Here, there was really a “war between the states.”
The cobbly, conglomerate road was worn and
rutted by wagon trains and caissons. Wreck of
army transport, the whitened oak of shattered
wheel spokes and the bleached skeletons of mules
and horses, lay at the bottom of precipitous slopes.
Already the Virginia creeper, flaming in its fall
colours, was straggling over them. A big gun,
looking like the great helpless booby it was, smirked
up at him out of a landslide two hundred feet
below, silent. In a clearing which had once been
a cornfield were the graves of half a hundred men
from a number of states. Iowa, Mississippi, Ohio,
Texas, and Rhode Island had all contributed to
making the soil of West Virginia fertile.

There were only a few names on the graves.
Most of the marker boards had nothing but regi-
mental buttons tied to them. And yet this had been
an unusually good burial squad job. Amateurs
probably. Usually they just piled them in. One
grave actually had a cross over it. And on top of

igo ACTION AT AQUILA

it, perched like the personification of state sover-
eignty itself, sat a huge turkey buzzard, too gorged
to pay any attention to him. It was pretty far north
for buzzards, but the Valley of Virginia, he reflected,
was not so far away. And then suddenly the road,
as though it were tired of such things, soared clean
up out of it all.

It left the devastations of mankind and became
nothing but a smooth, leafy track running tunnel-
like under the branches of an immemorial forest
of giant chestnuts. There was no underbrush. The
sovereignty of nature held undisputed sway here.
Everything was living and clean. The brown chest-
nut burs bursting with fruit lay scattered for miles
over the floor of the forest. Tribes of fat grey
squirrels chattered at him, raced and leaped
through the sinewy branches. Cottontails dashed
twinkling up the road. Half a mile farther up he
came to the crest and began to descend.

Black Girl picked her way daintily for fear of
leaf-filled holes in the trail. The intricate network
of veins in her neck stood out as she held back
against his weight on the steeper places. By this
time he had become very fond of her. She was sure-
footed, gentle, strong, and intelligent. He com-
municated with her in a language of chirps and
grunts and by slight pressures of knee or rein. She
responded by tossing her head proudly or by
blowing her nose — eloquently. Her only vice was

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS igi

neighing, and that was a high-spirited one. With
his horse the man was content. He was sorry,
almost ashamed, of what he was riding her into.
For the nerves of a fine horse, he knew, were as
sensitive as those of a man — and he had often heard
them screaming. That was part of the service of
cavalry. At Manassas, for instance . . . He hoped
fervently that wouldn’t happen to Black Girl — and
to him.

No one ever seemed to have lived in the Valley
between the North and Flint ranges. At least no
one lived there now. There was plenty of ginseng, a
sure sign of solitude. There were groves of wild
pawpaws burst open by the frost, and delicious.
Now and then a deer broke away, leaping through
the maze of flaming sumac thickets. Rhododendron
and mountain laurel gave to a certain tract an
almost parklike aspect. The place was alive with
quail, feasting upon wild wintergreen berries. He
remembered his own lack of breakfast keenly at
the sight of them. Theie was no hurry. He would
stop.

Innate caution, for one could never tell who
might be lurking in these regions, caused him to
turn aside from the trail to camp, and to choose
the spot carefully. It was in a mountain meadow
at the bottom of the trail filled with isolated
boulders and patches of dry grass. A stream widened
out here and twisted about areas of high bank an

ig2 ACTION AT AQUILA

acre or so in extent. These must have been islands
in flood time. But they now stood up boldly, a
man’s height above the general level, covered with
pines. He hobbled Black Girl and left her grazing
out of sight of the trail at the bottom of one of
these banks. Taking his blanket roll, holsters, and
saddle-bags, he staggered with some difficulty to
the top of the small butte-shaped “ island ” he
had chosen. A flat, sandy area covered with drifts
of brown pine needles stretched before him, dotted
here and there with several boulders the size of a
small house. Between two of them he made camp.

A pile of dry pine cones made an almost smoke-
less fire. From his blanket roll, which seemed neatly
to contain nothing but itself, appeared rather
miraculously some small folding utensils and some
carefully packed rations; from his saddle-bag, a
nubbin of the lean. In a few moments the fragrance
of coffee and bacon so tickled his appetite, already
razor-keen from his breakfastless ride in the frosty
forest air, that he could hardly wait for the coffee
to boil. Consequently, he sliced twice as much
bacon as he had at first permitted himself, half a
large potato — his last — and a small onion, and
fried them all sizzling at once. This rasher he
eventually packed firmly between two large, square
hard-tacks that bore the legend “BC 1294” baked
into them. That, the colonel felt sure, was the date
when they had been baked, rather than the number

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 193

of the alleged biscuit company. When put to the
test, however, they disappeared rapidly along with
a cup of coffee; and with something so substantial
for contemplation to work upon, he spread his
blanket in the warm morning sun against one of
the boulders, and lit his pipe.

The solitude, the scenery, and the morning were
magnificent. On either side of him, and a thousand
feet above, two solid walls of forest clothed in
pure yellow’ and scarlet rolled away into the blue,
cloudless sky. The trail, only half-visible, came
down the ridge to the west and skirting across the
valley climbed over the eastern rampart through
a notch. From where he sat he could overlook in-
numerable other “islands” like his own scattered
over the broad mountain meadow through which,
a few feet below him, a small river tumbled and
rushed over its pebbly shallows, filling the whole
valley with a constantly refreshing monotone and
a sound as of muffled bells. That, a faint soughing
in the pines, and the constant whistle of the bob-
white, were the only voices pitched against the
silence of the wilderness.

It reminded him of his camp near Snoqualmie in
the Washington Territory, wiiere he had once lived
for six weeks completely alone. That had been a
healing and strengthening experience. He wished
he could return to it; and, half-closing his eyes,
like an Indian, he let the sweet Virginia smoke

Na

ig4 action at aquila

drift through his nostrils and the past and the
future drift with it into oblivion. For a few minutes
—it would be hard to tell how long, for time had
lapsed — he lived alone, completely in the body
and the present. The past and future exist only
in the imagination, and that had ceased to trouble
him.

It was a small, grey shadow passing and repassing
over the sand at his feet that first attracted him
back into wakeful consciousness. Suddenly the
shadow bloomed, as it were, into an intense black
swirling flower, and he looked up just in time to
throw up his arms and scare off a hawk that shot
past him with snapping beak. He laughed, some-
what startled, and then sat listening. Far up the
trail he could hear someone singing.

The sound came nearer. The old tune had the
lilt of mountain fiddles in it. The glint of sunlight
on a rifle came through the leaves. He hastily
quenched a last hazy ember of his fire with sand
and lay down, peering out between his boulders.
There was a faint echo of the clear young voice
now. The words of the song seemed to be coming
from everywhere, clean and clipped.

“I’ll take a country ship:

And to the beaches’ lip
Of my own native land
I’ll press my own,

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS 195

And deep will draw my breathe
From meadow and from heath,

Sweet as the sand unto my tongue and teeth
That is mine own.

Between the pole and line
Is nothing good nor fine
As ... ”

But here the song broke off into a kind of perplexed
whistle, and whoever was riding down the trail
dismounted, for the colonel could see him vaguely
through the trees, evidently searching for something
— his own trail, he divined, because it was just
about there he had left the road and ridden across
the stream to where he was now. He grunted and
drew his holster near. Then in plain profile on the
open stretch of road immediately opposite him the
stranger emerged.

It was young William Farfar, leading a white
mule to whose famine-haunted frame only a human
skeleton need have been affixed to have routed
armies.

Four score and seven years ago — at least !
thought the colonel.

And then, at the sight of the boy, he remembered
his promise of the night before. “Oh dear” — he
groaned inwardly — “I just can’t take this young
Sancho Panza along with me. It’s wrong and it’s
ridiculous. And yet here he is! Lord!”

ig6 ACTION AT AQUILA

The colonel had forded the stream just below
where Farfar was standing. Black Girl’s hoofmarks
disappeared into the river-bed there, and the boy
now stood in some perplexity, his rifle nursed in
the crook of one arm, while he scanned the wide
meadow before him. Finally, he whistled shrilly.

The colonel didn’t answer. He had decided to leave
the matter to fate. If the boy found him, he would take
him along. If not — so much the better, he thought,
when fate answered through a shrill trumpet.

Black Girl began to neigh and the mule replied
as mules do. The echoes took it up. Hee, haw , haw —
haw hee haw, roared and mocked the valley.

“Hi!” said Farfar.

The colonel showed himself and beckoned. He
was weak with laughter. “Come on over,” he said
at last.

Farfar mounted and forded the creek.

“Oh gosh, kunnel,” said he, “oh gosh, I’m glad
I found you. Ye air goin’ ter take me with ye,
ain’t ye?”

“Yep,” said the colonel.

The young fellow’s face flushed with an intense,
grave pleasure. “God,” said he almost prayerfully,
“I’m a-goin’ to be a real soldier at last!”

The colonel said nothing for a moment — nothing
that could be heard — and then:

“ Well, son, here’s the first of military questions.
Have you had anything to eat?”

A VOICE IN THE WILDERNESS I97

“No, sir, I hain’t,” said Farfar, “ ’ceptin’ a few
rawr chestnuts. I lifted me that mule and my rifle
and come after you right spry. That is, spry as
that mule could chunk along. I don’t think they’ll
miss her much. She was horned a long while back.
Reckon she maunt hev fit at King’s Mountain.”
He grinned, and threw himself down to bask in
the warmth of the rock, looking up meanwhile
into the depth of the blue sky.

The colonel busied himself preparing another
cup of coffee.

“Thot bird up thar’s a gerfalcon,” said Farfar,
shading his eyes. “You kin tell by the way he hivers
on the wing.”

“Here,” said the colonel, “throw this into you.
We must be getting along.”

But the lad was not to be hurried. He sat crunch-
ing a hard-tack and drinking his coffee for some
minutes, and the colonel let him. In the end the
colonel smoked another pipe. And it was only
when he knocked it out with a gesture of finality
that they rose and left that pleasant spot.

Farfar’s mule had the heaves, twice going up
and once coming down Flint Mountain. It was
well along in the late afternoon when they at
last emerged on the white limestone roads of the
Valley of Virginia and heard cannon far away to
the south of them.

CHAPTER X

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM
FARFAR

In October 1864 a strange, perhaps an
undeserved, fate had overtaken the sleepy little
town of Martinsburg, Virginia. Partly by design
but mostly by necessity, it had eventually become
the advance base of supply for the “Department
of the Middle” that is, for all the Union forces
operating in the Valley of the Shenandoah under
Sheridan. Whether Martinsburg was to be in
Virginia or in West Virginia — in the Confederacy
or in the United States — no one in the town could
yet be certain, for the jurisdiction changed with
the swaying back and forth of armies, and it had
repeatedly been occupied by both sides. Many of
the “Virginians” had left. The inhabitants who
remained could scarcely recognize the place where
they were born.

Its cluster of leisurely, modest houses and a
peaceful steeple or two huddled like a flock of
scared, white sheep in the midst of the fields of
war. All about the town were miles of picket lines
dark with mules and horses, great stacks of fodder
and piles of ammunition, acres of spare wheels

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM FARFAR igg

laid in windrows. There were parks of artillery-
arranged like the squares in a checkerboard, spare
caissons, and stacked cannon. There were camps
for the regiments who stood guard at the base, and
quartermaster and ordnance sheds with crooked
stovepipes smoking merrily. Also, there was a
host of perambulating tents that on closer inspection
proved to be covered army wagons driving any-
where and everywhere across fields, down lanes,
through the confusion of the camp, singly, or in
fleets — regardless, so long as they obtained their
loads. Every hour or so a convoy of wagons got
under way in the main street and seemed to drift
over the white ribbon of stony road that led towards
Winchester. Through all of it, camp, town, and
fields, puffed and bustled the belching and shriek-
ing B. & O. engines, moving precariously over
hastily-laid tracks and temporary switchbacks
scattering sparks and billowing smoke across the
landscape like so many small dragons.

From the hills just west of Martinsburg this
animated, but to young Farfar unmeaning, scene
burst upon him as he and the colonel rode for the
town about four o’clock of a clear October after-
noon. It was the colonel’s intention to press on
that night towards Winchester, for to him the
scene was full of significance in each detail. On
every hand he read the signs of preparations for
a general advance. If nothing else, extraordinarily

200 ACTION AT AQUILA

generous piles of coffins, presumably for officers,
the massing of ambulances, and the constant
loading of wagons with ammunition rather than
rations told the tale. He was therefore anxious to
be back with his men — even before the formal
expiration of his leave — if a battle impended.
Nevertheless, he was forced to spend some hours
in Martinsburg. Black Girl might still have gone
on, but Farfar’s mule could obviously no longer
be regarded, even by the blindest of optimists, as a
means of transportation.

As they entered the town the colonel was in
some doubt, and embarrassment, as to whether it
looked as though he were bringing in a recruit,
or whether it appeared he had been captured in
the mountains and was being brought in on parole
for payment of ransom. For even in the worst of
Early’s raids no wilder figure than young Farfar
had ever entered Martinsburg. His long rifle, the
ancient pistol in his belt, his bare feet, flowing
locks, and bizarre “uniform” spoke loudly of the
mountains — And secesh mountains, at that, thought
the colonel.

So, much to the boy’s surprise, the first place at
which they stopped was a “barber-shop” run by
a couple of contrabands in an old cabin on the
outskirts of town. Here the colonel traded the white
mule to the delighted negro proprietor for a hair-
cut for young Farfar. And as the boy also insisted

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM FARFAR 201

upon a shave, for no visible reason — “nuffin but
fluff,” said the barber, — the harmless pistol went
for that. Since the mule was lying down when they
emerged, and might never get up again, the colonel
also contributed a dime to ease his conscience.
Thus having endowed a coloured brother, as though
with the touch of Midas, they made for head-
quarters in the tavern. There, without further ado
but amid much ill-concealed laughter, young
Farfar was mustered into the service of the United
States as a recruit for the 6th Pennsylvania
Cavalry.

“To defend the Constitution of the United States
against all its enemies whomsoever ... so help
me God,” repeated the grave and now bullet-
headed youngster after the grinning sergeant-
major. His right hand came down out of the air
slowly.

“Did you ever read the Constitution, Bill?”
asked the colonel.

“No, sir, I hain’t, but I hear tell hit’s something
we cain’t git along without.”

“You know what you’re doing though?”

“Jes’ about as well as any pusson in this room,”
said the boy, angry at the grinning faces of the
clerks.

“I’ve no doubt you know as well as any of us,”
said the colonel, and signed the papers for him.
“Now, sir, you’re a soldier of the United States.”

202 ACTION AT AQUILA

The boy saluted gravely, apparently someone
who was not in the room. The clerks laughed
again.

“What you doin’, colonel, robbin’ the cradle?”
asked the sergeant-major a little insolently. As a
quartermaster who could delay or withhold supplies,
he was used to being rather cavalier even with
officers. Non-coms and privates were almost beneath
his notice.

“Sergeant,” said the colonel, “you seem to
regard the swearing in of a recruit as a comedy
staged for your personal amusement. I shall mention
what a merry fellow you are at corps headquarters
tomorrow. We need you humorists to cheer us up
at the front.”

An appalled silence fell on the room. The colonel
stuffed some duplicate papers in his pocket and
walked out with his recruit.

“Where’s the quartermaster’s store — for arms
and equipment?” demanded the colonel of a
dandily-arrayed New Jersey cavalryman on the
street.

“ Second street to the right from the cars depot,”
replied the man, gaping in surprise at Far far.

“And the remounts?”

“Right across the tracks, sir.”

But just as they were going into the Q..M. store
they were joined by their friend the sergeant-major,
still looking a little nervous.

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM FARFAR 203

“Speaking of corps headquarters, sir,” said the
sergeant, “I thought I should tell the colonel I
heard yesterday from” — here the sergeant’s voice
trailed into a confidential whisper — “that the
colonel’s recommendation for brigadier-general of
cavalry has gone through to Washington.”

The colonel guessed that this was just the
sergeant’s way of smoking the pipe of peace. But
he, too, felt it wise to stand in with the dispenser
of supplies at the base. Colonels who quarrelled
with quartermasters had ragged regiments.

“That’s fine news if it goes through,” he said.
“But in any case I want you to continue to look
after the Sixth Pennsylvania Cavalry, as you always
have, sergeant. After all, you’re needed here, you
know.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the sergeant, his shoulders
coming back into a broader stance. “We’ll always
do all we can for you, rely on it.”

“Now here’s a recruit for the Sixth needs every-
thing,” continued the colonel. “By the way, Mr.
Farfar, I want you to meet Sergeant Colfax. He’s
going to outfit you personally and see that the boys
issue you the best. No shoddy blankets or paper
shoes. And you ought to be able to fit him well
here. I’ll be back shortly.”

“We’ll do all that,” said the sergeant, and took
Farfar in hand while the colonel rode on to the
remount corrals.

204 ACTION AT AQUILA

He couldn’t say much for the offerings on
hand. They were all big, raw-boned beasts fitter
for transport than cavalry. “General Wright’s
corps requisitioned a hundred and eighty only
yesterday,” said the trooper in charge. “What’s
left might do as off-horses for the artillery.”

“Pshaw,” said the colonel. “I wanted something
small and dapper.”

“Come down to number three,” said the man.
“There’s some nags they’ve just gathered in from
Luray and the upper part of the Valley down there.
Mostly family pensioners, I guess. But you might
find something.”

The colonel leaned over the bars and laughed.
All the family pets and fat old coach-horses from
Front Royal to Port Republic were standing
forlornly about. Some of them came nickering up
to the bars.

“Act like they expected sugar or an apple,”
laughed the trooper.

“I s’pose they do,” said the colonel. “There’s
many an empty paddock and empty heart repre-
sented here.”

“Yep,” said the man, “but Lee would get ’em
if we didn’t.”

The colonel nodded. He was stroking the nose
of a small roan mare that kept nuzzling at his
pocket. “No -sugar there, sweetheart,” said he.

“ She ain’t much more ’n a pony,” said the trooper.

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM FARFAR 205

“Bring her out and let me go over her,” ordered
the colonel.

The horse was sound and less than ten years old.

“A fine little lady. Looks as though she had
English breeding,” he said, looking her over. “Take
some of the mud and burs out of her coat and
bring her up to the Q.M. store. I’ll sign off for
her there. There’ll be a couple of dollars involved
for your own trouble.”

“I won’t argue about that, colonel,” said the
man. “We haven’t been paid here at the depot
for sixty days.”

Meanwhile, at the quartermaster’s store the
bounty of the federal government had descended
upon Private William Farfar with bewildering and
startling effect. Socks, shirts, underwear, and
blankets were all his at one time for the first time.
A jaunty kepi, a blue blouse with brass buttons,
a pair of trousers with bright yellow stripes, com-
pleted the outer man, except for a pair of boots
with spurs. To cap the climax, “ The Ladies ’ Aid
of Philadelphia present you” with a canvas kit contain-
ing several toilet articles, a pair of knitted mittens,
and a small Bible. Just to show he was a good
fellow Sergeant Colfax chipped in with a yellow
silk neckerchief bought at his own expense. And
the weapons and horse furniture followed.

A sabre, and a belt with a brass eagle on the
buckle. A Colt revolver with the blue metal

2o6 ACTION AT AQUILA

glinting, a carbine that hung by a ring to a brand-
new saddle. There seemed to be no end of it. A
saddle-cloth, a bridle, and several small articles in
neat leather cases— everything from a curry-comb
to a nose-bag piled up on the counter before the
youngster. And all he had to do was to sign for it.

“William Farfar, his mark

It was a carefully-made cross. The writing is in
Colonel Franklin’s hand, for he stepped in just in
time to sign for him.

The quartermaster’s department cherishes a
receipt forever. Somewhere in labyrinthine archives
that receipt still exists. The cross on it is the sole
monument of William Farfar.

If clothes make the man the uniform creates
the soldier. The lad who stepped behind a pile of
clothing bales in the quartermaster’s store at
Martinsburg that day to shed his nankeen rags
and the slim young cavalryman who stepped out
again were two different persons. Farfar left his
past behind the bales with his old clothes. The
sergeant showed him how to knot his neck-cloth,
and he stood there slim, erect, with his sabre
hanging from his slim waist, a warrior received
among men. The clothes were only an outer and
visible sign. He had, in fact, been reborn. The
little group of rough quartermasters who stood

THE ARMING OF WILLIAM FARFAR 207

about under the dim lanterns in the old shed under-
stood that.

“Want to take a look at yourself, young feller?”
said a man from Kansas with a beard like a frozen
sponge. No one would have suspected that he
carried a pocket mirror.

Farfar looked. It was good.

“My God!” he said.

They all laughed. The colonel led him out to his
horse and showed him how all his equipment
went. The young man’s hands trembled over the
stiff buckles.

They rode out of the town together. No day
could ever be like that day had been. Meta-
morphosis. The sun sank in an ocean of blood
behind the mountains. Far off to the southward the
cannon were still growling.

CHAPTER XI

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS
THE FLAG

The colonel reported at department
field headquarters at Winchester about nine o’clock
next morning. The atmosphere at headquarters
was entirely different from what it had been at
Harpers Ferry last August when General Sheridan
had first taken charge. Everything was well-organ-
ized and running like a machine. Confidence in the
chief and the feeling of victory were in the air. The
defeat of Early at Little North Mountain only three
days before had confirmed this. “In fact, you seem
a little too confident,” said the colonel to General
Torbert, who had ridden down from Cedarville for
a conference. “Early is an old fox, you know.”

“There were reports of enemy activity about
Fishers Hill this morning,” acknowledged Torbert,
“but I advised the general to disregard them.
That’s clear across the river from us and they
haven’t made any attempt to meddle with the
railroad at Strasburg. We’re working it now by
way of Manassas Gap clear through to Washington.
General Sheridan is going over to Washington
today for a meeting at the War Department.”

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 209

Colonel Franklin shook his head. “ What you need
is the old Sixth Pennsylvania out in front gathering
news for you,” he said. “ Can’t you persuade the
general to move us down from around Luray and
throw us out as a screen up the Woodstock side of
the Valley? I’ll soon find out what’s doing.”

“No, he can’t persuade me, Nat Franklin, you
old Pennsylvania politician,” said General Sheridan
himself, just then emerging from an office near by.
“How are you? And how did it go on leave?
Welcome back! I’ll be glad to know you’re in
charge of that gang of moss troopers of yours again.
Come in here, I want to show you something.”

They went back into the office where a big map
of the Valley of the Shenandoah lay unrolled.

“Look here,” said the general. “You see how
the Massanuttens rise down the middle between
the North and South forks of the river and cut the
Valley in two? Well, the main army’s here at
Strasburg keeping the North Fork under obser-
vation. Now, there’s no force to speak of at all up
the South Fork. Just a few detachments, enough
to keep the roads patrolled. Your regiment, you
see, is near Aquila just north of where the river
breaks through the gorge between the Blue Ridge
and First Mountain. I want you to stay there and
act as the cork in the neck of the bottle and send
news promptly of any movements you may observe
or hear of to the south of you. It won’t make much

Oa

210 ACTION AT AQUILA

difference if they do break through again up
toward Luray, because two days ago we made a
clean sweep of everything from Luray to Sperry-
ville — barns, mills, distilleries, blast furnaces. We
drove off about six thousand head of cattle, and
over five hundred horses.”

“Yes,” said the colonel, “I saw some of them at
Martinsburg.”

“Nothing’s left along the South Fork,” said
Sheridan, making a comprehensive sweep over the
map, “but I want to keep Early in play awhile
here on the North Fork as we have been. You know
we’ve moved up and down the Valley so often
from Harpers Ferry that the Richmond papers
have nicknamed me ‘Harper’s Weekly.’ I don’t
want to drive him clean out of the Valley yet.
He’ll simply retreat and reinforce Lee. That’s
the strategy of it, you see. I’m leaving the tactics
at the upper end of the south valley to you, colonel.
By the way, your recommend for brigadier has
gone through. We’ll see what’ll happen in Wash-
ington.” He clapped the colonel on the back.

Headquarters was certainly feeling fine ! Colonel
Franklin thanked the general and rode off for
Strasburg. Secretly, he didn’t want to leave his
regiment. It was the cherished product of his heart
and mind. Farfar kept pounding on behind.

“This ya little mare rides like she thinks she’s
goin’ home,” said the boy.

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 211

“Maybe she is,” replied the colonel absent-
mindedly, thinking of stars.

About two miles out of Winchester they overtook
a curious caravan. There were six covered carriages,
all black, positively lugubrious. And no wonder, for
the colonel recognized them as a species of closed
victoria used exclusively by Philadelphia undertakers
of the most respectable kind. As he came abreast of
the rear carriage and passed it, a window was raised
and “ a fair hand fluttered a white kerchief at the pass-
ing knights ” — sohehalf-humorouslyputitto himself.

Nothing could have been more astonishing or
more out of keeping with the restrained character
of these chariots of grief.

What’s up? he wondered.

At the head of the procession, in an elegant but
battered little phaeton with the hood thrown back,
sat a stout Irishwoman with the coarsened remains
of great beauty. She had flaming hair and a turban
about which an immense, moth-eaten ostrich plume
climbed several times to a fountain. For at the very
top the lady seemed to be bursting out into a kind
of feathery spray. Madam was driving.

The colonel raised his hat and received a smile
that was something more than cordial. His not to
question why, however, and he trotted past and
spurred up the road. A hundred yards or so farther
on he was hailed by as seedy a little man as ever
rode a spiritless nag with a snaffle bit.

2X2 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Say, are you in an awful hurry, colonel?”
he asked, pulling up nervously and nearly jerking
the jaw off his beast.

“Yes,” said the colonel, “I am.”

“I’m right sorry,” said the man, “I need some
advice right bad.”

“You certainly do,” replied the colonel, who
could not restrain his indignation at the suffering
of the man’s horse. “Now get down and unhook
that snaffle. You’re tearing your horse’s tongue
out with that bit.”

They stopped and the whole caravan of carriages
stopped behind them.

“What’s the matter now, Perkins?” demanded
the lady in the phaeton with a strong twang of the
owld sod.

“It’s me horse.”

“Horse me yer horse, and get on wid ye!”
cried the woman, scowling.

“Just a minute, madam,” said the colonel,
looking back. The lady’s scowl turned into a
gleaming smile.

“Gosh,” said Farfar.

“Come here, young man,” said the lady to
Farfar, who was all eyes. A number of handker-
chiefs were now waving from the half-opened
windows of the carriages behind.

Never mind that,” said the colonel sternly
to Farfar.

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 213

By this time the bit was readjusted and they
were soon under way again. The colonel looked
with some curiosity and great amusement at the
little man who was now bumping along beside
him. He was dressed in a borrowed Amishman’s
overcoat that stretched buttonless from his neck
to below his heels. He had no hat and a bad cold.
At every jog a drop of moisture fell from his pale,
sharp nose that sprang out of a face which had the
mulish expression of a schoolmaster complicated
by intelligent, cunning, and shifty eyes.

“It ain’t so easy for me,” said the man, sniffing.

The colonel grinned. “Pretty soft, I should say.”

“Nope, nope!” asserted the man. “You’re
wrong. She’s got thirty-two young ladies packed
in them ve-hicles an’ I got to see ’em all into the
old Railroad Hotel at Strasburg or I get the sack.
And I can’t get the sack ’cause I ain’t got no place
to go effen I do. My wife’s left me, she won’t truck
along with no madams. It was all right as long
as we was just bein’ a sutler for her at Harpers
Ferry. But since madam’s taken to followin’ the
flag and made me manager ”

“What?” said the colonel.

“Yes, sir; Madam O’Riley, she follows the flag.
That’s her motto. Every time the army moves up,
so does her and the girls. Now she’s movin’ clear
down into the front lines and settin’ up at Strasburg,
and the rebels is onlyjist across the river. Oh dear ! ”

214 ACTION AT AQUILA

said the man, wiping his nose on his sleeve. “ We’ll
be captured. You see!”

“ It wouldn’t make much difference if you were,”
said the colonel consolingly. “I hear they’re very-
gallant fellows.”

“Oh dear,” said the man again. “Oh, yes, it
would. All the take would be in Confederate money,
and madam’s a Union woman. She follows the flag.”

“ I’m sure the War Department would be touched
by her confidence,” said the colonel. “She must
believe in General Sheridan too.”

“Indeed she does, sir. Maybe you’d say a good
word for us there?”

“I will,” said the colonel, “depend upon it!
I’ll speak to the general. He’d just love to hear
about this.”

“The best thing about it is our rates, sir. That’s
my idear. The higher the rank the less we charge.
That keeps the clientele in the upper circles,
mostly — and the young ladies full of fun. Now for
a colonel . . .”

“Never mind that,” said the colonel.

“Oh, no, sir,” replied the man, “of course not,
but I thought you might just ride on with us to
Strasburg in case the provosts don’t know us.”

“Sorry,” said the colonel, “I’m in a hurry,”
and he proved it by galloping off down the road
to make up for lost time.

But it wasn’t lost time, either, he thought. Wait

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 2X5

till Phil Sheridan hears about it. Madam O’Riley,
she follows the flag!

They passed a mile or so of wagon trains and
parked artillery at Cedar Creek. The army was
camped only a few miles away on the heights
above. The roads were rutted three feet deep.
The clouds of dust never settled under the constant
stirring of couriers and transport. Scarcely any
rain had fallen for weeks and it was still hot at
midday. The mountains were almost as clear of mist
as in summer. It had been a strange fall. A good
one for campaigning. Winter is the universal enemy
of soldiers everywhere. But as the colonel rode into
Strasburg he was mopping his brow, and he dis-
mounted at the bar. It was by no means deserted.

“ Thank God, they didn’t burn this place down,” a
familiar voice was saying devoutly as he entered the
bar. It was Captain Fetter Kerr, his adjutant,
who had just ridden down, by way of Luray, the
day before.

They fell on each other and pledged the occasion.
Kerr was too genuinely delighted to see “the old
man back again” to conceal it. And the colonel
felt the same. Regimental news and several empty
glasses were exchanged for full ones over the bar.

The regiment was all right. Colson was doing
fine with the men. But an adjutant is an adjutant
and can serve only one master. The colonel allowed
for that while he listened. All was quiet about

2x6 ACTION AT AQUILA

Aquila. “It’s just like a sanatorium,” said Kerr.
“We’re getting fat. I’m down for a draft of new
recruits and remounts. Want to ride back with
us? We’re leaving right after mess.”

“Sure,” said the colonel. “By the way, I’ve
got a new recruit for you myself. Go and look him
over. He’s holding horses outside now.”

Kerr went to the door and stood grinning. Then
he suddenly snapped to attention.

With a great clatter of sabres and much gay and
loud talk General Phil Sheridan and his whole staff
came swarming in through the swinging door.

They were on their way to take the Manassas
Gap Railroad to Washington, and the official
train still tarried at Strasburg for a drink.

The general was in the best of moods.

“Damned if it isn’t Nat Franklin again — and his
adjutant! This is a fine place to find your regi-
mental headquarters, colonel. Don’t try to explain
the advantages. The drinks are on you. Here’s
to the gallant Sixth Cavalry, gentlemen. Penn-
sylvania, of course!”

They all crowded up. A roar of talk ensued.
Sheridan was delighted at having pinned the
drinks on an “old Indian fighter,” as he described
the colonel, for he was very proud of his own
Western record and generally managed to bring
it up somehow.

It was at this point that the colonel kept his

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 2X7

promise and “mentioned” Madam O’Riley to the
general.

“By God, I’ll give you a ride on my train for
that, Franklin,” said he. “I know — I know, but
it’s an historic occasion. The first train through
in three years. I want you to see the headquarters
saloon car. Sure, sure, you can get off at Front
Royal and ride up. Have an orderly take your
horse around there and wait for you. It’s a hot day.
I’ll give you plenty of horsyback before the winter’s
over. Hi,” he cried, “here’s a damn’ cavalryman
don’t want to leave his horse! I’m goin’ to make
him ride on a train. He’s scairt. Bring him along.”

They all swept out of the bar and two minutes
later were climbing into the cars. The colonel just
had time to call out to Kerr to send Black Girl to
Front Royal and to “look after that new recruit,”
when the train pulled out. The officers sat in the
headquarters car, the only one without smashed
windows. The colonel was really worried. He
didn’t want to go to Washington. But in the mood
the general was in he might find himself there —
and catch hell for it. That would be the joke.
His anxiety was soon over, however. About five
miles out of Strasburg the train stopped. The bridge
over Passage Creek needed a little more attention
before a general could be risked on it.

“About ten minutes’ more work,” the engineer said.

It took an hour. The staff produced cards.

218 ACTION AT AQUILA

Sheridan made no comment. He was the idol
of his army, not only on account of his great
personal magnetism, but because he trusted his
men and understood when a genuine difficulty
arose. He knew when, and when not, to be impatient.
Consequently, he moved swiftly because he had
learned how to wait. While his engineers were
making sure he would get to Washington by
finishing some extra repairs on the bridge, he sat
with his feet cocked up on the opposite seat chewing
a remarkably long-suffering stogie and reading a
copy of the New York Tribune that someone had
handed him. The remarks of Mr. Greeley and others
evidently moved him, for the stogie took on a more
and more perpendicular angle as his half-audible
comments became louder and more profane.

“Listen to this, will you,” he said, finally bursting
out, and read a letter from an indignant subscriber.
It amounted to an hysterical personal attack upon
him for “his vindictive, useless, and ruthless orgy
of destruction, worthy of Attila and his Huns, in
the lovely and prosperous valley of Virginia.”
An editorial, by the editor, agreed. “ Mercy,
charity, honour, and forbearance are all alike
equally strangers to General Phil Sheridan.”

“Pretty tough on Phil Sheridan, isn’t it? What
do you think?”

One of the card players laughed, but paused
in the deal as the general began to speak. His

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 2ig

remarks were addressed to the world. He was
evidently excited.

“They don’t understand,” said he. “I suppose
they never will. They expect me to apply force
but without any unpleasant consequences. Most
people still look upon war as a kind of honourable
duel between armies or a personal tiff between
generals. Early defeats Sheridan; Sheridan defeats
Early. You know, that kind of thing — sort of a
game. Something for your Walter Scotts to write
about. A lot of my fellow citizens seem to think
I’ve a personal grudge and hate the Johnnies;
that I like to burn down their homes and hear
their women and children wail. Editors can put
it that way. It makes dramatic reading, and their
business is to sell more newspapers. But I don’t
like war and I don’t hate anybody. I want peace
and it’s my cruel task to bring it about by force.
I’m out to get that result as quickly as possible. By
burning out this valley, as I have orders to do, we
can cut off Lee’s supplies and save years more of war.
It’s bad, but it’s better than another year of bloody
batdes.” He threw the paper down in disgust.

By this time everybody in the car was listening.
It was not often Sheridan “talked” except when he
was angered. He had the reputation of being a
little morose. But either Mr. Greeley’s remarks
or the drinks at Strasburg had excited him, for he
went on in the same emphatic tone.

220 ACTION AT AQUILA

“I look at it this way,” he said. “There has to
be some kind of government in North America.
A government that can be broken into fragments
isn’t a government. If the rule of the majority
can’t prevail by peace and logic, and a minority
appeals to force, then you have war. That is
a state of war when force has been invoked. If
you accept that way of doing things, as Mr. Horace
Greeley now advises us to do over his wise spectacles,
you won’t have peace, as he thinks, you’ll just be
in a condition of eternal war, like Mexico. It doesn’t
take two to make a fight between nations or inside
a nation. When any one side ditches reason and
peace and appeals to force, that is war. In Mexico
you can do that any time and so they do it all the
time. I’m for preventing that here. Now, the
minority in this country has appealed to force.
So it’s a civil war. But I don’t think that war
just means having one line of men shoot at another
line of men. That’s merely the duel idea over again
on a larger scale. War, the use of force, means
much more than that if it’s going to be effective.
People who rest at home in peace and plenty have
no idea of the horrors of war by duel — battles.
They can put up with it, all right, and write letters
to the newspapers telling the generals to be kind
to everybody. But it’s another matter when
deprivation and suffering walk in at their own front
doors. It’s unfortunate but it’s true: peace comes

MADAM O’RILEY FOLLOWS THE FLAG 221

quicker that way. Reduction to poverty of the
people behind the lines brings prayers for peace
more surely and quickly than just letting the soldiers
shoot it out. So the proper strategy consists in the
first place in inflicting as telling blows as possible
upon the enemy’s army, and then in causing the
inhabitants so much suffering that they must long
for peace, and force their government to demand
it. The people must be left nothing but their eyes
to weep with over the war. Anything else only
prolongs murder.”

Everyone was very quiet. There was no reply
when the general stopped talking. The officers
sat woodenly smoking as they had been while he
spoke. Clouds of tobacco smoke rolled out the open
windows of the old car. Some of them were thinking.
The general’s idea seemed a new one. Was he
right? they wondered.

Presently the hammering at the bridge ceased
and the train went on its way. The colonel scribbled
a note and had an orderly take it to the engineer.
At Front Royal they slowed down, and Colonel
Franklin jumped off quietly, nodding his thanks
to the train crew. Sheridan passed on eastward
through Manassas Gap.

Half an hour later Captain Fetter Kerr and his
band of recruits and remounts passed through
Front Royal. The colonel mounted Black Girl
and rode off with them up the Valley.

CHAPTER XII

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE

It was a curious, almost a novel, experience, that
ride. The evidences of man’s occupation of the
country were present, but the Valley itself was a
solitude. Only the roads were left leading to nowhere,
for not a house was standing. The cattle had been
driven from the fields. Even the birds seemed to sense
that something was wrong. Flocks of crows flew
uneasily from one patch of woods to another, cawing,
and looking for old landmarks that were gone. They
were the only voices of the place. From the signal
station on Meneka Peak behind them the signal flags
flashed, were hoisted, and disappeared, accentuating
the loneliness. The day was enormously peaceful.
There was not a breath of air. Indian summer in
all its calm, funereal grandeur brooded in the
silent hills while the Blue Ridge and Massanuttens
poured their ranges southward, surging up in great
waves of flamboyant and sere-leaved forest to the
crests of Mary’s Rock, Mount Marshall, the Peak,
and Stony Man. The afternoon grew solemn and
magnificent as the long shadows began to fall.

Even on the main road through the Valley
travellers passed were few and far between; an
occasional cavalry patrol, once a procession of three

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE

223

wagons filled with refugees, hollow-eyed women with
children cowering at their feet. No one spoke.

One of the recruits was weeping. He had been
unable to raise $300 to save himself from the draft
and had left a motherless little girl in the care of
strangers. His anxiety was more than he could
bear. The new men were all sorry for him, for
themselves, and for one another. They were already
painfully galled and chafed by the unaccustomed
saddles, and mostly homesick. The colonel did not
think much of this batch of recruits. The quality
of the new men got worse with each new draft,
he noticed. They would take a great deal of break-
ing-in and probably some coddling. But he could
no longer permit himself the luxury of universal
sympathy. Two years ago, at Fredericksburg and
after, he had felt the nation dying. Since then the
troubles of individual soldiers had seemed small.
Besides, they might be killed in battle. What did
it matter? They would all die anyway, and soon.

And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods?

He had never liked that bit of heroic poetry — yet
it seemed to be true in his day, Farfar looked at
him from time to time with a bright smile, and the
colonel grinned back. Christ! he hoped that infant

224 ACTION AT AQUILA

wouldn’t get mangled. He wished to heaven he’d
left him at headquarters. He could send him back
now — but, Lord ! the boy would be outraged. He’d
be back again — somehow- — or find another regi-
ment. The colonel gave it up.

They rode into Luray about evening and camped
in a roofless brick store. A few of the inhabitants and
some miserable freed men were still about. Even a
roofless house was better than none. One could look
up at the stars at any rate. Watching them, he slept.

Captain Kerr was delayed next morning. A
wagon train was due. They had to bring in all their
own supplies now, the devastation was so complete.
The colonel decided to make the ride of about
twenty miles up to Aquila by himself. He could
take the shorter mountain road. The views were
exalting. The risk was now negligible — and besides,
he had a little mission that he wanted to perform
alone. Secretly, he had looked forward to it for
weeks. He hoped he would not be too late.

Black Girl splashed through the ford across
Hawkshill Creek and trotted on up into the hills.
Valleyburg and the farmhouses along the way
were only ash-heaped mounds. The deeper woods
began. There was not a human soul for miles.
The road entered the primeval forest at the foot
of the Blue Ridge. There it ascended sharply and
turned south, plunging up and down over the
great side spurs of the mountain. He had forgotten

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE

225

how wild and precipitous it was. The view from
the crests grew grander and more sweeping.

There was one point in particular that he
remembered well. It was at the top of a peculiarly
long and arduous ascent. He would give Black Girl
a good breathing rest up there. The road was
scarcely more than a trail now. He plunged down
into the green gloom of a patch of pines, started
upward again, up and on up — Black Girl began to
pant heavily. There was the clearing at the top
of the trail! He came to the crest suddenly and
rode out into the light.

Southward, two mighty ranges of the Appala-
chians shouldered their way into the blue distance
like tremendous caravans marching across eternity.
Between those parallel ridges the Valley of the
Shenandoah lay, apparently, as serene and beautiful
as the interior of the Isle of Aves.

Thought is swifter than lightning. Perhaps its
fluid nature is essentially the same. In a flash, as
it were, while he had sat breathing his horse and
looking down from that giant height at his men
manoeuvring below in the Valley, the scenes of
the past few weeks — the faces and places, the houses
the roads, and the very sound of voices — had
flowed through his mind . . .

Pa

226 ACTION AT AQUILA

The failing echoes of the bugle in the Valley
recalled him to himself; reminded him that he was
returning. In a few hours he would be back with
his men. The daily round of alert caution in the
face of the enemy; of drill, skirmish and battle,
would be under way. A metallic clink as though
of an iron shoe against a stone somewhere in the
ravine at his feet tightened every nerve in his body.
Instantly a precautionary fear made each item
in the landscape stand out as though a bright,
white light had been turned upon it. Details became
important and memorable. A triviality correctly
seen might be saving, an error of observation fatal.
That was the feeling of war, a glorious awareness
as of super-vitality, of burning a little more brightly
than life could long bear. That was the fascination
of it. Existence was self-convincingly important.

How could he have sat there a target against
the sky! He must recollect himself from now on.
The Valley might be cleared, but it was still hostile
country. Anything might happen. He dismounted
and led Black Girl down the hill cautiously. The
only sound was the wind in the pines ; the constant
rushing and eternal gurgling of musical waters
over the ford at Aquila below. As he descended into
the ravine, the noise of the little river rushing over its
stones filled the air with a constant, delicate murmur.

There might be no one there. It might only have
been a loosened boulder washed down the bed of

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE 227

the stream that he had heard. But now he was tak-
ing no chances. He stepped aside from the trail,
tied Black Girl in a sheltering thicket, and conceal-
ing himself carefully, looked about him and down.

The ruins of what had once been the prosperous
little mountain settlement ofAquila layjust beyond.
There had been several stores, a half-dozen houses,
and a flour mill. The gaunt, fire-scarred walls of
their recent burning, their bright but vacant
windows, seemed utterly alone. It was through
this ghostly little “emporium” that he would have
to make his way to the camp in the Valley below.
The grassy road fell away sharply from the bank
where he stood, crossed the stream at a shallow,
ran through the town, and disappeared, going
downhill into the glimmering forest. It was a perfect
arrangement for an ambush.

He got out his field-glass and examined the neigh-
bourhood carefully. At so short a distance every
detail was startlingly clear. He swept the roofless
buildings house by house. A cat lay draped on a
sunny door step. She was washing her face. From
under the ruined mill-wheel an otter swam making
a V in the placid surface of the race. Black Girl
stomped in the thicket. Instantly the otter was gone.
Except for himself, then, the place must be deserted.
But there was one thing that puzzled him. There
were fresh wheel ruts in the road as far as the ford.
Then they seemed to turn up into the stream. On the

228 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

other side the road was untrodden. Someone must
have turned there and come back, he supposed.

On the town side of the creek, half-way up an
orchard slope towards a ruined foundation, was a
small stone springhouse. It was the only building
in the place that still boasted a roof. He turned
his glass on it. The door was on the opposite side.
But he could see the mossy shingles, and a vacant
window in the stone wall. A blackbird lit on the
roof and flew away. Something white was sitting
in the window. He brought his glass to a nice focus,
and smiled into his sprouting beard. It was an old
rag doll and it had only one eye.

He mounted Black Girl without further trepida-
tion and rode down towards the town.

The tracks at the ford were puzzling. They did
lead right into the stream, and disappeared.

Aquila Creek had a flat, gravelly bottom. Not
over knee-deep where it widened out through
the level meadows at the foot of the ruined town,
it swept placidly round a curve into the hills and
thickets like a silver road to Broceliande, only to
vanish under an arch of leaning hemlocks into a
dim forest beyond. Now and again, when the wind
permitted, from far back in the hills came the
distant roar of a waterfall. But that and the murmur
of vocal stones at the crossing were the only sounds
in the desolate little valley that seemed to be
listening for the clink of cowbells and the calls of

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE 229

vanished berry-pickers. Everywhere else brooded
silence and wide, afternoon sunlight. It was in
this hushed, almost expectant, atmosphere that the
colonel tied Black Girl again under an old apple
tree, and taking his haversack made his way swiftly
through the deserted orchard to the springhouse.

Five heavy flagstones set like the steps in a circular
stair swept down into the ground under an immense
beam and gave entrance to the place. He paused to
listen intently. Nothing but the methodical and
tuneful drip of water was to be heard from time to
time. Drip , drop, drip — and then a peculiarly vibrant
note as though a glass had been rubbed by a finger.
He waited to hear it again. It was dark down there.
On one of the limestone flags was the faint, muddy
trace of a child’s foot. He smiled — and stooping
head and shoulder, lowered himself into the place.

How secret it was. And yet, once inside, it was
not really so dark. From the open window at one
end a diffused sunlight reflected the square of the
window itself on a perfectly smooth pool. He could
still see the rings of some sunken butter-pots there.
As his eyes became more used to the silver twilight
that was reflected into every part of the old stone
room, feebly but equally, he gave a quick exclama-
tion of pleasure. The doll sitting in the window was
not the only one. At the far end of the building,
where it ran back into the hill more like a cavern
than a house, was a juvenile domestic establishment.

230 ACTION AT AQUILA

Tiny cups made out of acorns sat upon the heavy
log shelves in dainty rows. There were little piles
of peach kernels and horse chestnuts. These, he
remembered, have a spiritual, even a monetary,
value for childhood. There was a pile of glinting
mi ca pebbles watched over by a faithful but cracked
china dog. And there was also a dilapidated wagon
laden with pine cones, drawn by a prancing cast-
iron rabbit. Three luminous marbles with glass
spirals in their magic depths, and a bit of worn
moleskin upon which reposed in solitary and
minuscule grandeur seven golden links of a brass
watch-chain, obviously comprised the chief treasures
of the trove. And the dolls? —

There were several of them.

They were made of corncobs and dressed in
butternut sacking. One had a scarlet coat out of a
bit of Turkey carpet slightly burned. Another had a
“liberty cap” contrived from a baby’s sock with a
tassel sewn on. But most of them sat about on small
chips of log or hassock-shaped stones with bright
autumn leaves and cardinal or blue jay feathers in
their “hair.” There was something Indian about
them. Their features were carved like a totem with
painted or burnt spots for eyes. And it was evident,
from their arrangement around a pile of small sticks
over which a cracked tea-cup was suspended that they
were met in a solemn council of the Corncob tribe.

The colonel looked at them and smiled with an

THE VALLEY OF SOLITUDE 231

almost boyish glee. Pocahontas might have played
here. He hadn’t enjoyed anything so much for years.
He wouldn’t have been discovered for the world.

But the springhouse was completely withdrawn
from the world. Its subdued, watery light seemed the
very atmosphere of secrecy. The hollow musical tone
from the wooden pipe in which the spring rose slowly
and occasionally overflowed, sounded the single muted
note of a lonely instrument that celebrated solitude.

He reclined on one elbow in a deep pile of leaves
which the children had gathered at one end of their
little refuge and indulged himself in the luxury of
unrestrained reverie. It had something to do with
his own boyhood — and its melancholy aftermath.

Presently he opened his haversack, and brushing
aside some of the autumn leaves, began to dispose
its carefully-cherished contents in the cleared space
on the stony floor.

First he unwrapped and arranged carefully, as
though furnishing a room thoughtfully, the small
set of furniture he had bought that day on Walnut
Street in Philadelphia. There were tables, chairs,
couches, and a sideboard — elegant, upholstered,
miniature, and pristine. These he set with little
dishes and a piece of his handkerchief for a table-
cloth. He put a coffee bean at each plate and,
from his ration tin, some sugar in the bowl. The
effect was extremely fascinating, and he undid the
coloured German paper from about the dolls with

232 ACTION AT AQUILA

eager fingers and a deep excitement. There were
six of them. A mother and father, obviously sedate
and conservative. These he set at either end of the
table to preside over the feast. In the four remaining
chairs sat two boys, both in military uniform with
epaulets, and just across from them a couple of
flaxen-haired and blue- eyed girls.

T his , to tell the truth, w 7 as disappointing. The
children were all too much of an age. Perhaps there
were a couple of sets of twins in this family? The
girls did, as girls should, seem a little younger than
their brothers, but — an even more ingenious solution
occurred to him. Perhaps these were two military
suitors calling upon a pair of simpering sisters. Mam-
ma and papa did look severe. No wonder. Two young
men from the army ! There was trouble ahead for you.
And indeed at that very moment one of the cadets fell
forward and buried his face in the hypothetical soup.

So lost in Toyland had the colonel become that
he caught his breath sharply.

A sigh of relief that might have followed was
definitely prevented and cancelled into confusion
by a ripple of amused, feminine laughter. Watching
him through the window was the admirable face of
Mrs. Crittendon.

The colonel was not only embarrassed, he was
consternated.

“Well,” said she, “for an incendiary, Colonel
Franklin, you’re the most domestic man .1 ever saw ! ”

CHAPTER XIII

COINER’S RETREAT

The colonel leaped to his feet in an
agony of embarrassment. If one of Mosbys raiders
had just poked his rifle through the window and
drawn a bead on him, he could not have felt more
dismayed. It was all simply dreadful — and Mrs.
Crittendon still continued to look at him. But she
wasn’t laughing any more. In fact, she had suddenly
become quite serious. He felt grateful to her for that.

Just at this point, however, to cap the climax
he moved, awkwardly, of course, and upset the
doll family completely with his sabre.

“There!” said she, “I knew you’d do that.”

Still speechless, he foolishly stooped to retrieve
the disaster and only made matters worse. Sacks
seemed to have been wrapped about his hands.
His fingers were positively muffled. He knew she
must be laughing again, and he looked up at her
helplessly. But she wasn’t.

“Do you need some help?” she asked earnestly.

“Indeed, I do,” he replied, almost hoarse from
chagrin.

She suppressed a smile and disappeared from the
window. The mirror of the spring basin, where the

234 ACTION AT AQUILA

reflection of her head had lately fallen quite
clearly, went suddenly vacant; the springhouse
was lonely again. A few seconds later he heard her
light step on the entrance steps.

She came down the big flagstones and paused
at the door. Perhaps it was the comparative dark-
ness inside that stopped her. She sat down on the
lowest step and leaned back shading her eyes from
the sunlight overhead and peering in at him.
For a second or two they took stock of each other.
He was no longer embarrassed. A certain sense of
physical well-being and confidence brought by
her presence overspread him. Somehow he felt
that she shared it.

“I hope you won’t tell the children about this,”
he began. “It was a surprise that I was pl annin g
for them. If they found out, it would spoil the magic,
I’m afraid.”

“Why, of course,” she said. “I’d never think of
tellin’ them.”

“No, I didn’t think you would,” he said gravely.

“For my part I didn’t mean to come spying on
you either,” she continued hastily. “I saw your
horse in the orchard and wondered who had come
here. The children do come down to the spring-
house to play sometimes. We used to have friends
at Aquila. It was wonderful of you to think of
bringin’ them dolls. Poor lambs ! They had lots of
them in the old nursery at ‘Whitesides’” — she

coiner’s retreat 235

hesitated a moment — “and they miss ’em,” she
added a little desperately.

“Oh, I’m sorry about that!” he exclaimed. “If
you only knew. That whole miserable business will
always haunt me. I tried to prevent it.”

“I know,” she said. “I’m grateful! But you can’t
expect a mere woman to understand the deep
political reasons for burning her house down.”
Her voice sank ironically.

He did not attempt to reply.

A silence — the gulf of the war — fell between
them. He wondered if they could cross it. Probably
not. In the semi-darkness of the springhouse he
felt he was sitting in complete solitude again. The
musical note from the wooden pipe broke suddenly
as though a weak harp string had let go. He became
conscious once more of the steady drip of the spring.

“ Does anyone else know the children have been
playing here?” she finally asked. A new note of
anxiety had altered her tone.

“I think not,” he said. “I just happened to call
in here some weeks ago on my way North — and saw
you were about. I remembered that one-eyed doll
on the window-sill was the baby’s. I recollect his
holding it up to me that morning.”

“Oh, yes, ‘nice man’!” said Mrs. Crittendon.
“Yes, I remember that myself.” She smiled a little
sadly. “It’s natural enough that I should, you
know, that morning!” For the first time a note of

236 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

genuine bitterness crept into her voice. Her foot
began to tap the stone rapidly. She seemed to be
trying to make some decision about which she was
still in doubt.

Thank heaven she was an Englishwoman, he
thought. If she had been a native Virginian, one of
the women born in the Valley, she would never
have spoken to him. Or she would have heaped
contempt or insults on him — and he couldn’t have
blamed her. He looked up at her, grateful for her re-
straint. He wondered if she knew about her husband.
And then — he remembered the little packet he was
to give her. His hand went to his pocket. But she was
speaking again. Her foot had stopped tapping.

“To tell the truth, colonel,” she said, “it’s
curious, but you’re the very man I was looking
for. I — we are in really great trouble. I haven’t
heard from my husband for weeks. I shall soon, I
trust. But meanwhile” — a haggard look came into
her eyes — “I am forced to appeal to the enemy,
I know your regiment is camped just below us here
and I thought you might help. So it has been
encouraging to find you here — doing what you
were. Because I don’t know whether I could have
brought myself to speak to you if I hadn’t found
you here. But” — suddenly growing almost eloquent
in her urgency — “I think now that perhaps I can
appeal to the man who burned my house — and
yet brought dolls to the children. Gan I? ”

coiner’s retreat

237

“Mrs. Crittendon, I have General Sheridan’s
order to help you.”

“That man!” she cried. “Never mention him
to me. He and General Hunter have the curses
of every good woman in Virginia!” She stopped,
breathless. “No, no, it is to you, not to him, that
I appeal.”

His hand dropped away from his pocket. Rather
than give her the packet now he would have shot
himself. It would have been like striking her in
the face with a whip.

“I shall do anything — everything that I can!”
he cried impulsively. “Please believe me!”

“This is not a bargain between the United States
and the Confederacy, you know,” she said scorn-
fully. “Goverments always belong to men and act
as though there were no women in the world. I am
a woman appealing to you for children. The under-
standing must be only between you and me, a
personal one, or not at all.”

“Let it be that way then, between us two,” he
said.

“Very well,” she said. “Then I shall ask you
to come with me and promise not to reveal what
I am going to show you. Will you?”

“Yes,” he said.

She leaned forward and looked at him intently.

“Just a minute,” she said. “ Please get the horses,
while I — I’ll rearrange the dolls!”

238 ACTION AT AQUILA

She passed him, going into the springhouse now
and looking up at him with a grave smile. So close
to her, he was aware of the suffering and anxiety-
in her face. It was not altogether the sunlight that
had kept her hand over her eyes all the time she
had been talking, he noted. No, he could see that.

He walked down the orchard towards the horses.
Mrs. Crittendon had tied hers under the same tree
with Black Girl. The two beasts were touching noses
softly, already the best of friends.

How, thought the colonel, am I ever going to be
able to tell her that the major is dead? I can’t do it
now. She seems to have about all the trouble she
can bear. No, it will never do to tell her now! Shall
I let her think he will come back to her? One needs
hope these days.

He thrust the packet into his breast-pocket again
and took the bridle of the new horse gently. After
he had fed her an apple and stroked her neck a little
she stopped snorting at him.

In the springhouse Mrs. Crittendon quickly
bathed her eyes and face in the cold spring water.
There, that was much better ! She gave a laugh of
pure relief. She wouldn’t have to ride down to the
camp, after all. It was luck to have found him here.
She began to arrange the dolls rapidly. Presently
the trample of hoofs sounded above.

“All ready,” he called.

When she came up out of the springhouse to meet

coiner’s retreat 239

him she had recovered some of the freshness and
poise of an English girl going for a ride in Hyde
Park. Indeed, that was exactly what her riding
costume had been made for — in ’47. It was sadly
faded. To the colonel, nevertheless, it seemed just
then the acme of style. He cupped his hands and
she sprang lightly into the side-saddle of her eager
little roan.

They rode briskly down through the leafless
orchard and across the meadow to the bank of the
stream. Then they turned right, in the stream itself,
and splashing along its shallow bed as though it
were only a flooded highway, disappeared under the
arch of hemlocks into the quiet corridors of a forest
of evergreens. The noise of the waterfall came
closer now; much nearer as they rode up-stream.

Mrs. Crittendon next unexpectedly turned her
horse up the bed of a small rivulet that flowed
unobtrusively out of the heart of the forest into
Aquila Creek. They followed that for some little
distance around a bed. It was shallower than the
creek had been but still smooth and gravelly. The
hoofmarks disappeared under the swift current as
soon as made. Then, where a great tree had fallen
across the ravine, she turned aside and struck uphill
into the forest along an ancient logging road. There
were some wheel marks there. How old, it was hard
to tell. But not so long ago several vehicles must
have passed. All going in, he noticed.

24O ACTION AT AQUILA

The road took a violent rise, and they suddenly
rode out of the forest and stood looking down from
a little crest into an open glade in the hills.

“This is the secret you must keep,” she said.
“How do you like it? We call it ‘Coiner’s Retreat.’
There is an old legend of a lost vein of silver some-
where about up here. Before your Revolution there
is the story of an Englishman who came here
and coined shillin’s privately. There was more
silver in them than in the king’s. Nevertheless, they
tried to hunt him down. When Major Crittendon and
I were first married we used to wander all through
these hills. This is part of our property. We came on
this place quite accidentally one day. We think that
the old coiner’s cabin was down there. Anyway, we
found some of his silver coins under the hearth.” She
held up a coin bracelet on one smooth arm and smiled.
The thought of those times had brought a glow of
pleasure to her face. “We always said we’d find the
vein of silver too. That was our romance, you know.
But we never did. My husband furnished the old
cabin for a hunting lodge and did some other things.
Sometimes we came and stayed summers. We were
safe from the world here then, we thought. And now
...” She stopped and choked a little.

“Perhaps you can still be so,” said the colonel.
And then, seeing that she was trying to hide her
emotion, he turned away and looked out over the
secret coign of the hills that lay below him.

coiner’s retreat 241

Such were the times that it had not failed to
occur to Colonel Franklin that he might be walking
into a carefully baited trap. Union soldiers who
wandered off into the hills in that part of Virginia
might well be reported missing shortly afterwards.
He was as yet only two or three miles away from
his men, to be sure. But he might as well have
been a hundred, for all the good they could do him.
And in the “cove” of the hills that now opened
before him a regiment of the enemy might easily
have been concealed or a whole village of moun-
taineers. He had heard of such places, and the
mountain people were known to be hostile to
“strangers” of either side. It was therefore with
some natural apprehension as well as curiosity that
he examined the landscape just ahead.

He was looking down into a deep fold between
two knifelike spurs of the Blue Ridge into what in
the West would have been called a canon. At this
particular place the walls of the canon widened,
leaving a level floor of sunny valley a square mile
or so in extent, covered with meadows and luxuriant
patches of ancient oaks. Through this snug little
cove, as through a miniature countryside, the stream
meandered placidly, spreading out here and there
into oval pools and small lakes. It was apparent
that in some past epoch Aquila Creek' must have
been dammed by an enormous landslide and
formed a lake here in the hills. In the course of
Qa

242 ACTION AT AQUILA

subsequent ages it had cut through its obstruction to
the level of its own floor and drained away — leaving
a little patch of Constable’s England behind it.

That, at least, is the way Mrs. Crittendon
regarded it.

She and the colonel were standing now on the
rocky and forested top of the old landslide, listening
to the roar of the stream where it still rushed down
a hundred feet or more over its natural dam in a
series of thin falls and frothy cascades. Most of its
watery commotion arose from its final dash over
some huge boulders into a deep black pool at the
foot of its impediment. From the top of the dam
this pool could be dimly glimpsed through the
tips of the tall pines surrounding it like a dark
plaque in the forest below.

To the colonel’s wary eye, long trained correctly
to judge the military possibilities and peculiarities
of any given section of terrain by distance, height,
cover, and approach, the natural and yet almost
uncanny concealment of the pleasant little valley
now lying unrolled before him like a model neigh-
bourhood impressed itself as the result of art rather
than accident. In that sense there was undoubtedly
something dramatic, almost artificial, about it.
And yet nothing could be more natural.

The valley lay east and west, and it simply so
happened that there was no neighbouring height
from which it could be overlooked, except perhaps

coiner’s retreat 243

from the very crest of the Blue Ridge itself. Five
miles away that superb mountain wall, covered with
tangled forests and Cyclopean boulders, lifted at an
acute angle directly into the sky. All about and
between was a welter of broken ridges and seething
foothills whose vertical inclines and dense, briery
underbrush repulsed alike the hunter and the
mountain farm. Unless one approached the valley
up the bed of the creek — and only a wandering
fisherman was likely to do that — the place was
self-effacingly lost. The single, narrow trail up the
ramp of the landslide would have been all but
impossible to come upon if one did not know exactly
how to find its entrance from the foot of the stream
in the forest below.

All this was evident at first glance. Afterwards the
colonel discovered that the Crittendons had im-
proved the trail in past summers so that a wagon
could be driven across the landslide — by the use of
main force and a double team. And Mrs. Critten-
don told him later that the place had been redis-
covered by her husband only when, by mere chance
and adventure, he had climbed up hand over hand
by the waterfall. Major Crittendon had been a
lifelong fisher after trouts, an angler whose theory
it was that there might always be better pools higher
up. The old coiner’s lost retreat had first burst on
his view from the top of the dam as unexpectedly
as the South Sea to Balboa. The Crittendons

244 ACTION AT AQUILA

cherished this secret of their mountain land as if
the hills themselves had revealed to them personally
a romantic episode out of the past of their deep,
blue immortality, one which it would have been
folly further to confide to the rest of mankind.

Black Girl extended her neck, breathing deeply,
inhaling the promise in scent of the succulent
meadows below. Except for a light haze of smoke
rising from behind a clump of woods half-way up
the cove, and a small flock of pigeons that circled
over the same tree-tops, the place looked deserted.
Of the cabin that Mrs. Crittendon had mentioned, he
could see nothing. He ventured to look her way again,
hoping that by now she had regained her self-control.

She made no attempt this time to conceal that
she had been weeping. She gave him a firm little
nod, and made a final dab at her eyes with a small
handkerchief.

“Well, will the fly still follow me into the par-
lour?” she asked— and managed to smile at him
“There is trouble ahead. I won’t deny that. But it is
my trouble and not yours,” she added softly.

He felt sorry now that she had so easily surmised
his suspicions. But they had been too inevitable to
require an apology. Also, although he hated to admit
it, to look at her was enough to allay his doubts.

Their eyes met.

“I am following you, Mrs. Crittendon,” he said,
“wherever you’re going.”

coiner’s retreat 245

She gave him a grateful glance and led the way-
down the inner face of the old landslide. The descent
on that side was a short one. In a few moments they
were galloping over a long stretch of perfectly
smooth meadow in the direction of the smoke.
Presently they passed into a kind of natural avenue
under the broad limbs of ancient oaks. It was a
comparatively open piece of woodland with the
trees wide apart and no underbrush. A couple of
wild razorbacks rooting in the mast fled before
them. They then rode out of the wood as suddenly
as they had entered it and drew up into a walk.

The colonel could see nothing ahead but a broad
sweep of meadow with several clumps of woods
clear to the point where the valley swept around
into the hills a quarter of a mile away.

“Look behind you!” called Mrs. Crittendon. He
stopped and swung about.

A long low cabin with massive boulder chimneys
at either end now lay before him. If faced directly
east, with its back squarely against the woodland
through which he had just ridden. It seemed to
have been tucked in under the oaks, some of whose
branches stretched over its roof. In the summer
it would be in dense shade. Doubtless the oaks had
overshadowed it in the course of time. The roof was
obviously rather new, and before the house was a
trim picket fence of split-oak palings, surrounding a
neat door-yard. The gate was open. Along the path

246 ACTION AT AQUILA

to the broad veranda some late flowers were still
in bloom. There were a number of rough out-
buildings scattered about farther back amid the
trees. He noticed a couple of wagons and an old
carriage. And half-way up one large oak, concealed
in its giant fork, was a tree house with a ladder and a
porch. At the sight of Mrs. Crittendon the flock of
pigeons began to come down and light about her.

The place had all the air of what the colonel
called a “snuggery.” Nothing more secure and
secluded could be imagined. And, considering the
surroundings, nothing more beautiful. But just at
this point the colonel’s somewhat uneasy pastoral
musings were cut short by the appearance at the door
of the cabin of a young man with a rifle in his hand.

“Paul!” cried Mrs. Crittendon, leaping down
from her horse and running frantically towards the
cabin. “Put down that gun!”

The boy was having some trouble with it. It was
a long rifle and he appeared to have the use of only
one hand.

“Paul! ” she called, rushing through the gate and
up the walk. “Stop him, somebody, stop him! ” she
shrieked.

The boy had raised the rifle to his shoulder with
one hand. It wobbled in the general direction of
the colonel, who had also dismounted rapidly
and started towards the house. Margaret Crittendon
and an old man with a white beard rushed out and

coiner’s retreat 247

grappled with the boy. The rifle went off and the
bullet droned up the valley. Mrs. Crittendon
collapsed and sat on the steps. On the porch behind
her a violent struggle was going on. Margaret and
the old man were trying to overpower Paul.

“I told you not to bring any Yanks here, Aunt
Libby,” he yelled at her. “I knew you’d gone for
them. You can’t fool me! What would Uncle
Douglas say?” He seemed to be frantic.

Margaret had thrown her arms about him.
“ Paul, Paul, you silly, be quiet,” she kept saying.

“O God, my arm!” The boy gave an almost
girlish scream. There was anguish in it. “Quit,
Meg, quit, you’re killin’ me.” He staggered back
against the wall of the porch and slumped down.
The old man caught him in his arms.

“He’s out of his head, poor lad,” said Mrs.
Crittendon, looking up at the colonel. “He didn’t
know what he was doing.”

As long as he lived Colonel Franklin never forgot
the look of agonized appeal that she gave him.

“That’s right,” said the old man. “He’s had a
terrible fever now for three days. It’s God’s visita-
tion for his sins.”

Mrs. Crittendon suppressed a sob. For a moment
they all stood looking at one another blankly.

Young Margaret laughed.

“Maybe you’ll help carry Paul back upstairs for
us, colonel,” she said. “We’re a little weak around

248 ACTION AT AQUILA

here. There hasn’t been too much to eat lately.” She
laid her hand on his arm and smiled at him calmly.
So much patience, understanding and loveliness was
in the young girl’s expression that his eyes went dim.

“I’ll do that, my dear,” he said.

He took the half-unconscious form of Paul from
the old man and followed Margaret through the
door. The boy was light. He felt like a sack of
bones with a fire in it. The young body seemed to
be smouldering inside. Grasping his worn butternut
clothes, the colonel felt the fever beating through
them into his hands. For the first time he noticed
that the clothes were probably the ragged remains
of a Confederate uniform. One of Virginia’s boy-
warriors, he thought — and remembered Farfar.
It took the draft to bring out the older men. Some-
thing in the boy’s face, flushed and drawn though
it was, reminded him of young Margaret Crittendon.
The family resemblance was palpable.

“Your brother?” he said to her as he laid the
boy, whose eyes were now half-open, but seemed to
be seeing nothing, on a cotton tick pallet in a
small garret room under the eaves.

“No,” she answered, speaking almost in a
whisper, and looking down at Paul sadly. “He’s
my cousin, Paul Crittendon. Uncle Jim was killed
two years ago at Mechanicsville. Aunt Ann died
a few months later. I reckon she pined away.
They all came to live with us at ‘ Whitesides ’ in

coiner’s retreat 249

the Valley then — Paul, and Mary, and the baby.
And now ‘Whitesides’ has gone! It will be all
right when father comes back. We can make a go
of it here. But we need Paul. You can’t blame him
for hating Yankees, colonel, can you?”

“Poor child!” said the colonel.

“Why, he’s all grown up!” exclaimed Margaret
proudly. “He’s been in three battles already with
General Early. And he’s got a girl too, Flossie
Kiskadden. And he’s wounded. I reckon you’d
call it that. There’s no blood, but look! Look at his
poor arm. It was an old round shot did it. It was
just rolling a little when he stopped it, he said.”

She laid back the boy’s coat, uncovering a filthy
sling made of sacking. The colonel untied it care-
fully, revealing a frightfully swollen arm. From the
wrist to the elbow it was the size of a small tree.

“I’m afraid it’s a compound fracture at least.
Maybe splintered,” he said. “That’s a job for a
surgeon, of course.”

“Of course it is! That’s just what I kept saying.
I told mother she’d have to go down to the camp
and ask you. You helped me put out the fire at
‘ Whitesides ’ that day. Oh, I know you’re going to
help us. We do need Paul so much, colonel. My
father would do as much for you.” The young girl
shivered and took hold of his coat.

“You don’t have to beg me, my child,” said the
colonel. “Of course, I’m going to help you. I’ll

25O ACTION AT AQUILA

have a surgeon up here in a jiffy. I shall treat you
like my own children.”

“Oh!” said Margaret. “Oh, colonel, I don’t
care if you are a Yankee, every Crittendon will
always thank you.”

“Margaret, Margaret,” called Mrs. Crittendon,
“what are you doing up there for Paul? Talking?
That won’t help him.”

“Yes, it will, mother. It’s going to help a lot,”
replied her daughter. She busied herself folding an
old coat under Paul’s head.

The colonel walked downstairs.

“The first thing to do,” he said, “is to get that
swollen arm reduced. May I have a bucket with
some cold water?”

“No water!” exclaimed the old man, rising
white-bearded before the fireplace, and towering
all six feet of him like a tall grim spectre till he
seemed to dominate the room. “It is written that
sinners for their transgressions shall burn.”

“Never mind that,” said the colonel, looking at
the old man sternly. “Go and get a bucket of
water.”

To everyone’s surprise, especially Mrs. Critten-
don’s, the old man’s shoulders drooped, the light
died out of his eyes, and he went quietly. Outside,
the well-chain began to creak.

“Who is that old party?” asked the colonel not
too reverently.

coiner’s retreat

251

“A family I’ve given shelter to up here,” replied
Mrs. Crittendon. “An old, retired Cumberland
Presbyterian minister and his daughter. The Rever-
end James Kiskadden. Here comes Flossie now.”

Coming down the path with a lackadaisical,
strolling air and a basket over her arm, the colonel
glimpsed a red-haired girl of about fourteen.

“Oh, it’s very complicated,” continued Mrs.
Crittendon. “Paul’s mad about Flossie. That’s the
only word for it — mad as only a boy can be. I’m
afraid things aren’t as they should be. But it’s
wartime and I can’t stop it. I can’t!” she insisted,
her hands closing and unclosing rapidly. “And
now he’s come back wounded — and to see that girl.
The old man holds me responsible. I had to take
them in, you know. He’s a little bit — well, it’s all
religion now.”

“And I suppose he has been ruling the roost?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, I haven’t the strength to stop
him, I’ve been so tired. You would not find me this
way, tears and all that, if I weren’t simply worn
out. If it weren’t for Margaret, I don’t know what
I’d do.

“Flossie, this is Colonel Franklin of the United
States Army,” she said to the girl who had stopped
at the door astonished at sight of the colonel. “He’s
come here to help us.”

“How do you do, Miss Kiskadden,” said the
colonel.

252 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Howdedo?” replied Flossie, apparently oblivious
of everyone. She sat down and shoved her basket
under the table. Tall and thin, with long legs and
large adolescent hands and feet, there was, never-
theless, something wild and lovely about her. Her
features were regular and delicate. Her uncombed
hair escaped like red, spun gold from under her
flabby sunbonnet, and her blonde lashes lay lik e
faint gilt brush marks across the dark pits of her
eyes. She sat apathetically.

“Did you get anything?” inquired Mrs. Critten-
don anxiously.

“No, ’m, the niggers must have been to the
patch and got all the taters last night. It’s all dug.
Thar’s narry a marble even.” She lapsed into a
sullen silence.

“Oh my!” said Mrs. Crittendon, “what are we
going to do?”

“Now, Mrs. Crittendon,” said the colonel, “I’m
going to ask you to sit down in this chair and stop
worrying. There will be plenty of food here by
tomorrow morning, and anything else you need.
And I’ll bring the surgeon with me for Paul. He
can’t set that arm till it’s reduced anyway, and
until then I’m going to do exactly what he would
do for it. By the way, where’s that water?”

“Pa’s sittin’ beside it out thar on the well-kerb
looking at hisself in the bucket,” said Flossie, “the
old fool!”

coiner’s retreat 253

“Flossie, you must not speak of your father that
way in my house,” cried Mrs. Crittendon, striking
her hands together. The girl jumped. “Go out
and bring the children in. Hurry!”

Meanwhile the colonel had retrieved the water
and was carrying it upstairs.

“Water!” cried Margaret when he entered the
room. She looked shocked. “Mr. Kiskadden said it
would kill him. He said you have to dry out a fever.”

“He did, did he!” replied the colonel. “How
long has Paul been without water then?”

“Three days,” replied the girl, looking at him
terrified.

“Get me a glass, quick,” said he.

She was downstairs and returned in a flash. The
boy lay back on the old coat, his chin in the air, and
a glimmer between his eyelids. The colonel raised
his head carefully and tilted a glass to his lips. A
surprised look as though the gates of paradise had
safely closed behind him spread over the face of
the sinner Paul as the divine coolness flowed down
his parched throat.

Another glassful followed.

“That will do now for a while,” said the colonel.
“But give him all he wants from time to time,
Margaret.”

Paul opened his eyes and looked about him. The
water seemed to act upon him instantly as though
he had had a sustaining stimulant.

254 ACTION AT AQTJTLA

“That’s more than the Crittendons would do
for me. For a hundred years now I’ve been beggin’
Meg to give me a drink. And they wouldn’t even
let me get one myself!”

Margaret listened to this indictment, standing
tight-lipped at the foot of the bed. “It was the old
man, Paul,” said she. “He told us.”

Paul disregarded her. “I’m sorry I tried to shoot
you,” he said to the colonel. “I didn’t know you
were a doctor. I thought you were a com-com-
bat&nt.”

“All right,” replied the colonel, glad to take
advantage of the boy’s mistake to help him. “Now
you know how it is, just take it natural. I’m going
to try to make that arm easier for you. Do you
think,” he asked Margaret, “I could get another
bucket downstairs, something to let his arm rest
in?”

“There’s the old cider keg under the porch.
You could break the head in,” she whispered.

“The very thing!”

A few minutes later the keg, minus one end and
filled to the brim, was standing by the head of
Paul’s low cot. Fortunately he seemed to sink into
a torpor again. He made no resistance when the
colonel and Margaret raised him, and with infinite
care lowered his left arm into the cold well water
till it reached high above the elbow. Once he cried
out. It was only then that the colonel understood

coiner’s retreat 255

he was bearing silently the agony of having the
terribly painful arm moved.

“You’re a real Virginian, Paul,” said the colonel.

The boy acknowledged the compliment by open-
ing his eyes. This time he smiled at them. “ Where’s
Flossie?” said he.

“Never mind her,” said the colonel. “Margaret,
I -want you to stay here and watch Paul. Flossie can
help you later, perhaps. But keep his arm in the
water and give him all he needs to drink. If he gets
cold and starts to shiver, take his arm out for a
while. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send you help
early in the morning.”

Margaret nodded, unable to speak, and smiled
him bravely out of the room. She was a natural
nurse. Taking off her worn apron, she dipped it in
the cold water and began to sponge Paul’s face and
chest. The grateful coolness relaxed him. For the
first time in days his arm had ceased to throb.
He put his free hand up to pat Margaret’s cheek.

“You’re an awful nice girl, Meg! I’m sorry.
Do you love me?”

“No,” said she, “not the way you mean, not like
Flossie. But you are my cousin, Paul,” and she
gave him a cool family kiss.

“ That’s lots better than the Battle of Little North
Mountain,” he said.

“Oh, Paul, I hope you won’t ever go back,” she
cried.

256 ACTION AT AQUILA

“There, there, Meg. Don’t you cry now. I’ll do
what a Crittendon ought to.”

She nodded, her eyes brimming.

Downstairs the colonel found Mrs. Crittendon
busy getting what she called “tea.” It was a mess
of coarse boiled oats and a little corn meal. She
was trying to rub the lumps out of it with a big
wooden spoon against the sides of a bowl.

“And it’s the last meal we have,” she said, show-
ing him the bottom of the tin. “On the strength of
your promises I am venturing to kill the fatted calf,
you see.”

They sat for a moment or two discussing young
Paul’s plight. He warned her not to let old Mr.
Kiskadden interfere with the treatment.

“I shan’t,” she said. “Your coming has wakened
me out of that spell. You know, when you’re
terribly tired, how a dominating person prevails
somehow.” She brushed one wisp of golden hair
back from her forehead. “Paul has made all of us
lose a great deal of sleep.”

He could believe that. She was nearly worn out.
It was evidently the excitement of leaving the valley
that had buoyed her up in their meeting at the
springhouse.

He took out a note-book and began to make a
list of necessaries, questioning her methodically.

She laughed a little.

“I suppose army men always carry those note-

coiner’s retreat 257

books,” she said. “I t looks familiar. Major Critten-
don was a West Pointer, you know.”

He coloured. “Nevertheless, I find them helpful.”

“Exactly — ” she said, and went on with her list.
It seemed endless. “You see, I am asking for every-
thing. I took your advice that day and got away
from the house as quickly as I could after getting
grandma off in a wagon for the South Side Railroad.
She insisted upon going to Richmond. She was
right, I suppose. She would have died up here.
We brought two wagonloads of stuff to the cabin
and there were still some things that remained from
our summer excursions. All the food is gone now
and we’re dark at night.”

He closed the book. “I’ll send you all I can,”
he said.

Flossie Kiskadden came into the room with the
two children. Mary, a little girl of seven, and the
baby Tim about three years old. Mary curtsied
to him. Tim was inclined this time to be aloof.
“I want some supper awfu’ bad,” he said. The old
man kept coming and going, bringing in spare
wood for the two fires.

“It’s the only light we have,” said Mrs. Critten-
don, “and it does look cheerful. But I hate to burn
it all before winter.” She and Flossie were walking
back and forth, busy about small domestic tasks.
In the long room the firelight from the double
chimneys beat warmly upon the giant side logs of

Ra

258 ACTION AT AQUILA

the old cabin. They were silvery with age and at
times glinted almost like metal. The two children
sat eating their mush out of white bowls, gossiping
about the tree house and their life there in subdued,
bedtime voices. At either end of the room a yellow
sheet of flame ran up the ample chimney-backs
where some black pots hung. Old man Kiskadden
took a rag-stick from a cracked bowl and rubbed
his gums with snuff. He sat back in the warmth
contentedly. On a near-by shelf an old clock ticked
loudly.

The colonel closed his eyes for a moment. What
time was this that was passing? It seemed to be a
time he had lived long before — long prior to 1864.
He was aware of Mrs. Crittendon’s skirt touching
him as she passed; of a faint scent of lavender.
The clock whirred and struck — only twice. The
children burst into a laugh.

He opened his eyes again.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said, “depend upon it.
I’ll have to bring one or two of my people, you
know.”

“Yes,” she said, looking a little shocked. “Yes,
of course! Won’t you stay for supper?” she asked
half in mockery. And then gravely, “ We’d be happy
to have you.”

“I think not.” He smiled, peeping into the scanty
mush bowl. “But that reminds me!” He went out,
hastily unstrapped his blanket roll and stripped it

coiner’s retreat

259

of what rations it still contained. He took the last
of his bacon from the haversack.

The children welcomed the sugar, hard-tack
and coffee with a glad outcry. Young Ti mm y made
a vain attack on the army bread.

“My goodness, is that what Yankees eat?”
exclaimed little Mary. “No wonder then!” A
general laugh went round. Even old man Kiskadden
grinned.

She bade him good-bye at the door with the
firelight wavering behind her.

“Our blessings go with you tonight,” she said
simply.

“I shall need them,” said he, and held his hat
to his breast. The door closed slowly. He stood for
a moment lost in the outside world of a restless,
scarlet sunset. In there he had found peace.

A few seconds later Mrs. Crittendon heard Black
Girl gallop past and the hoofbeats diminish rapidly
down the valley. She lay back in her chair. Some-
how a certain feeling of security possessed her.
Hot coffee, which she had not tasted for two years,
ran through her like a genial elixir. I wonder what
Douglas will say, she thought. She had promised
her husband never to reveal the way into the valley
to any stranger.

“And now,” she said aloud, with her hands
behind her head and looking at the fire, “I’ve
done it!”

26 o

ACTION AT AQUILA

“Done what, mother?” demanded Margaret,
who had just come downstairs for her meagre
share of the meal.

“I’ve broken my promise to your father, and
brought someone who isn’t a Crittendon into
Coiner’s Retreat,” said Mrs. Crittendon, as though
confessing a sin. It sounded worse to her after she
had said it aloud.

Her daughter came over, and standing behind
her chair, began to stroke her mother’s forehead.
She leaned over and put her arms around her.

“If father were here he would have done the
same. You know he would,” she whispered. “And,
mother, the old times are over!”

“Oh, don’t say that, my dear,” cried her mother,
grasping her child’s hands spasmodically. “How
can you?”

“Because I know it’s true,” murmured Margaret.

“Yes?” replied Mrs. Crittendon after a little.
4 ‘Then from now on we shall have to do the best
we can here in the valley. I must hold things
together till your father comes back. God knows
how long this war will go on. Think of it, think
of it! It’s been four years now! You were a little
girl when it began. Margaret, do you know some-
times I wish I hadn’t married a Virginian. I would
never have seen this beautiful, dreadful country
then, these quarrelling states — until what a state
we’re in! Remember, if anything ever happens

coiner’s retreat 261

to me, you are to go back to Melton Mowbray, to
your uncle Freek’s home. There are no states there,
only England and the Queen.”

“But I wouldn’t have been here if you had stayed
in England. We wouldn’t have known each other.
Mother, I’ll never leave you, never from now on.”

“Hush,” said her mother. “Gome and sit on
my knee as you used to do not so long ago. I need
you, but none of us can keep the other for ever.
But I need you now, little daughter, I need you as
I never did before and I thank God we’re still
together. Since the house burned you seem to have
grown up. We’ll hold the fort here together and let
the men’s war go on. I was wild to talk as I did.
Something seems to have shaken me today for the
first time. It’s the thought of change, I suppose.”

The clock whirred and struck two again. It
struck two every hour. Major Grittendon had once
set the hands. One of them had caught. Mrs.
Crittendon wound the clock regularly but let the
hour hand point to her husband’s time. It was her
clock, the only marriage present she had saved
from the fire. Of a fine English make, it kept on
faithfully trying to make time into eternity.

“Paul is much better,” whispered Margaret.
“He’s asleep. Flossie promised to watch him. She
likes to hear what he says in his fever.”

“Meow,” said Mrs. Crittendon faindy in her
daughter’s ear.

262 ACTION AT AQUILA

“It’s her turn, anyway,” said Margaret. “I
stayed up last night.”

She got a blanket, and crowding her mother to
one side in the big bench-chair, wedged in beside
her. The two sat cheek to cheek looking into the
fire. When the clock struck two again, neither of
them heard it.

Flossie Kiskadden came downstairs in her bare
feet and peeped at them. She seemed reassured.
She tiptoed back to the garret and took a look at
her old father in the far corner of the loft. He had
gone to sleep on his knees, saying his prayers by an
old stool. She threw a worn quilt over him and
felt that she had done a good act. The children
were breathing regularly in the little room right
across from Paul’s. She went back noiselessly and
sat down beside her patient. The fever had left
him. His left arm was still in the keg of water. He
was shaking and shivering now.

“Paul,” said she. “Paul, are you so cold?”

“’Pears like winter’s at my heart,” he whispered.

“Leave me warm you, Paul. Will you?”

He patted her arm. In the starlight she stood up
and slipped her frock to the floor. Presently she
was beside him under the blanket.

Very slowly he drew his numb arm out of the
water and laid it across them both outside the covers.

“Don’t you move, Flossie,” he whispered. “It
would just about kill me.”

coiner’s retreat 263

“I won’t,” she answered, smiling up into the
darkness. She turned her face to his. He felt her
firm young lips against his own.

“Did you miss me, Paul dearest, did you?”

“ Lord,” said he, “ this is what I really came home
for!”

She gave a sigh of content.

One — two, chimed the clock downstairs . . .
one — two . . .

Hours before, Colonel Franklin had ridden into
camp. The regiment received him home with a
roar. “The old man’s back and he still had two
days of furlough left. That shows what he thinks of
us! I’ll bet you he takes Captain Thatcher out of
arrest before reveille roll-call. Lieutenant-Colonel
Colson’s all right, but he sure has it in for troop
‘D.’” Rumour and gossip spread from fire to fire.
And sure enough Captain Thatcher was released.
Colson was glad to find himself out of a pig-headed
muddle, and “D” troop had received a lesson. At
tattoo the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry turned in,
feeling itself one happy fighting family unit again.

Taps sounded.

Presently no one but the sentries, alert for miles
southward, heard the Shenandoah rolling, singing
mournfully along its shallows in the Valley of
Desolation.

CHAPTER XIV

DOLLS IN THE SHADOWS

What the sentries saw all night long
was the dark mass of mountains and forest out-
lined against a .void shivering with frosty light.
After midnight the fields and open spaces became
visible, stretching mysteriously wide and vacant
in the ashy pallor flowing from the face of an
apparently motionless moon. The uniform impres-
sion to those who were watching was of a unity,
black in the blue darkness, existing motionless and
timeless, free from cause and effect, a something
static.

What the sentries were looking for all night long
was movement, any sign of change that would
mean the presence of an enemy. But there was no
sign of movement of any kind. The enemy they
were looking for was not there. Changes, the signs
of movement during a single night that marked
the presence of the real enemy, were so gradual
to the eyes of human sentries as to be like the
genuine foe himself, unsuspected, and so, undis-
coverable.

But if the real enemy was not to be seen, he made
his presence audible. He operates by sapping and

DOLLS IN THE SHADOWS 265

mining, and the sure, slow, inevitable, and ever-
victorious measure of his progress was to be heard
in the sound of the rolling Shenandoah, carrying
away the Valley and everything in it, shifting
Virginia out of space, out of time.

Roll, O Shenandoah, roll — and all you other
rivers rolling rapidly. The real enemy hides not
only in swords but in ploughshares. Beat your
swords into ploughshares and still the destruction
and desolation of the land is confirmed. One
hundred years of careless farming had wrought
more lasting and irretrievable desolation in the
Valley of Virginia than General Sheridan could
have conceived or his troopers have carried out.
Who the real enemy was, how imperative it was
to unite against him, none of the watchers on the
night called by them October 16-17, 1864, had
any idea. The sentries had no more idea of the
constant presence and invisible operations of the
real enemy than had the sleepers divided into
opposing camps over and against whom they
watched. Pale faces under white tents, or faces
covered with dew looking up palely at the stars, a
dead world filled their heaven with an ashy light
as though warning them even in their dreams of
what a devastated Earth might be.

There are signs set in heaven.

All their skill, all the intelligence of co-operation
in a united state, all their mutual patience, loving-

266 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

kindness — and more — would be essential just to
prevent and delay — even to defeat temporarily,
by exercising the utmost skill in minor human
tactics — the overwhelming strategy of the natural
forces operating eternally against them.

So all the sleepers in the Valley that night were
like the dolls in the springhouse at Aquila. Sentries
and sleepers alike, they were unconscious of what
was upon them. In the springhouse one could have
seen enacted in a kind of Lilliputian horror a micro-
scopic mystery of the whole. Whimsically enough,
the play was in the moonlight, a dumb show of
the visitation of nature upon the droll waxen figures
of man.

Mrs. Crittendon had rearranged the dolls care-
fully. The havoc wrought by the accidental sweep
of the colonel’s sabre had been set in order. They
sat there, while the moon looked in past their
one-eyed sentry in the window, eternally feasting
as though nothing could ever disturb them. The
water dripped and the feast went on. They sat
smiling at one another happily.

Let us forget how small they are. So is a man.
In the darkness behind them the dolls of the
Corncob tribe are as invisible in the shadows as their
actual prototypes in the darkness of the past. It
is only the white dolls that the light now falls
upon.

And there is — something terrible about them.

DOLLS IN THE SHADOWS 267

Something waxenly wolfish in their bright, merci-
less blue eyes and the frosty glint of moonlight on
bared china teeth. Not so sinister, though, as that
something else behind them by the spring.

It is a flat head that has the long, easy curve of
the cowl of death over it. It rises slowly above the
stone coping of the pool and out of that hood of
darkness stare two moonstone eyes. The moonlight
catches in them, the cold shimmer from the spring
water flakes into green in those sockets and turns
around.

The body of the otter emerges from the wooden
pipe like a snake from the ground.

It merges itself in the shadows. It advances hour
by hour with them. The scent of an enemy lies
upon the dolls. As the moon sinks, darkness over-
takes them. When daylight comes through the
window again two of them are gone.

One would scarcely know they had been if it
were not for the two small, empty chairs. It is all
very tiny again. Really rather funny. The spring
dripped on.

In the Valley just below Aquila the trumpets of
the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry hailed the sun with
a fine brazen clamour. A great neighing and
whinnying goes up from the picket lines. The
mountains roll in thunder as the guard empty
their rifles in a morning volley for fear the charges
may be damp. Colonel Franklin stirs in his tent

268 ACTION AT AQUILA

and remembers where he is. Dudley, his orderly,
unties the flaps and lets in the sun.

In the cabin at Coiner’s Retreat Mrs. Crittendon
rises from the side of Margaret out of the big chair
where they had been half-sitting up all night before
the fire. She throws the blanket over her daughter,
who is still sleeping, and picks up a comb that
has fallen out of her long, golden hair. Then she
puts a little lightwood on the embers and begins
to boil a pot of coffee. The last of the colonel’s
bacon is just enough to go round. That is all there
is. She wonders when the promised help will come.
Flossie smells the coffee, and carefully rising from
the side of Paul, slips into her dress again. Paul is
sleeping peacefully. The fever has left him. The
children dash half-naked out of their room and
scamper down to the fire. Old man Kiskadden
awakes, mortally stiff and still on his knees. He
takes up the affair of Paul and Flossie with his
Maker in his morning prayer precisely where he
had left off the evening before. It is revealed to
him that they should be married. Mrs. Crittendon,
he realizes, may be more difficult to persuade than
our Father. “And for myself, O Lord, I ask that
thou wouldst help me to remember where I put
things so thy old servant can find them again.
Amen.”

CHAPTER XV

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER

Weather is a far more subtle topic of con-
versation than most people surmise. There is a
profound reason why nearly everyone agrees about
the weather. It sets the deep underlying mood, the
constant of feeling, by which men act. It is, in a sense,
both the cause and the barometer of events. Hence,
to rehearse the exact state of the weather at any
given time is to recall how men felt then, and, to
some extent, why they acted in a certain way. For
feeling largely governs thought; it is the well-spring
of action. Take, for instance, the unusual weather in
the Valley of Virginia during the autumn of 1864.

Indian summer seemed to have come to stay.
There was no wind to speak of. At most, a few warm
and feeble breezes. Trees hung listless with incred-
ibly brilliant leaves that dropped one by one.
Ethereal sunshine drenched the mountains, and
the sky was softly brilliant at night. The weather
had something monotonously eternal about it. A
man felt calm and comfortable, lazy and a little
amorous. Light frosts in the morning merely served
to add zest to life. And for weeks there was no
sign of change. Indian summer simply went on.

270 ACTION AT AQUILA

That a bitter winter was presaged seemed unbeliev-
able. Winter would never come.

The crystalline mountain atmosphere, as autumn
advanced, gradually took on more and more the
quality of a magnifying lens. Unconsciously, every-
body’s view slowly became telescopic. On every
side the long blue mountains receded majestically
into the clear, cobalt distance; fused at last with the
sky. What was casually spoken of in the newspapers
at home as the “theatre of war” at last became for
the actual actors in it an amphitheatre of such vast
and significant proportions that the futility of human
conflict, for once, threatened to become generally
apparent. It is no mere accident that diaries kept by
soldiers then serving in hostile armies allude to such
effects and attribute them to the same natural causes.

Also, many were tired of the war. At certain
fords across the Shenandoah and in some villages
in the Valley men fraternized. Federal coffee and
sugar were exchanged for Virginia tobacco. Military
bands playing patriotic airs were distantly cheered
from both sides. “Home, Sweet Home” brought
forth a wild universal acclaim.

All this was better than a Truce of God or an
armistice of generals. It was the natural truce of
man asserting itself, reason and necessity prevailing
slowly over an irrational enthusiasm that had
resorted to force. There were no more spontaneous
clashes of madly enthusiastic partisans. Battles were

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 2"]l

coldly and calmly prearranged on the map by
generals. But for that very reason, when they did
occur, there was about them a certain desperation,
an element of purely professional and efficient
slaughter that had frequently been lacking before.
The war had become a generals’ game, with feeling
reduced to a factor. In the Valley the pawns in
the next move for the most part were content to
live on, camping in the apparently endless Indian
summer, enjoying temporarily the truce that the
elements themselves seemed to have proclaimed.

At Aquila the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry, watch-
ing the gorge through which the enemy never
came, lapsed into a purely mechanical vigilance,
none the less effective for that. Detached from all
other commands, and camping alone in the solitary
Valley, the regiment attained a complete individual
importance and concentrated upon its routine of
military life and activities as a separate unit much
in the same way that an isolated family becomes
totally absorbed in its own domestic affairs.

In the ample meadows a half-mile below the
ruined village the wide camp seemed permanently
to be pitched upon a field in eternity, safe between
two giant mountain walls.

This effect of aloof permanence was, to any
sensitive observer, striking and inescapable. Nothing
broke the silence of the deserted Valley except the
regiment’s own bugle calls, the neighing of horses.

272 ACTION AT AQUILA

or distant shouts of command. How lonely, yet how
immovable the white tents seemed !

Colonel Franklin, owing to his long leave of
absence, was perhaps more aware of this than any-
one else. As he sat shaving in his tent the morning
after his return, looking out over the military but
peaceful scene before him, the fixed air of the
camp, the lounging, conversational attitudes of the
stable detail watering the horses at the near-by
ford, the elaborate arch of woven evergreens before
the drum-major’s tent, all conveyed to him, not
without a humorous connotation, that pleasant
sense of security in which the 6th Pennsylvania
considered itself to be rusticating.

It was not the colonel’s intention to reveal his
own alarm at thus finding his command fallen
into such a dangerously comfortable state of mind.
Rather, he intended to take advantage of the con-
tentment of his people, the unbelievably good
weather, and the excellent forage and drill grounds
that the miles of meadows along the river bottom
provided to bring his men and animals to the
pink of condition. He intended also to polish
the drill and to perfect the marksmanship with the
new Enfield breech-loading carbines only recently
issued. They had been captured at Vicksburg the
year before and were still cased in their original
blue-paper, English wrappings. He would serve
them out immediately and get down to business.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 273

To this end — while he still lingered over a break-
fast to which the always foraging Dudley had
miraculously contributed two fresh eggs presum-
ably laid by himself — the colonel brought forth a
small note-book regarded by the regimental ser-
geant-major with peculiar respect and aversion
and began, as every good officer should, to set down
item by item his plans for the new daily routines.
His ideas came easily on so fine a morning, and in
a short while he had before him as admirable a
prospective regimen of drill and discipline as any
regiment might be expected — not to admire.

But let them grumble, he thought. If head-
quarters and the enemy would only let him alone
for a few weeks more, he would not only have the
new recruits broken in, but his veterans, men and
horses, all working together as one perfected and
intelligent machine.

These, and other official matters, having been
consigned to memoranda, he now glanced at the page
marked “ Mrs. Crittenden’s Urgent Requirements,”
set down the evening before. He conned this for a
minute or two and then sent the orderlies for the day
after three individuals: Surgeon Adolf Hoi tzmaier.
Private William Farfar, and Mr. Felix Mann. They
were soon seen hurrying to the colonel’s tent.

Dr. Holtzmaier had been born in Bethlehem,
Pennsylvania, — twenty-seven years and some odd
days before the colonel sent for him, — naked and

Sa

274 ACTION AT AQ_UI LA

without a sense of humour. Since then he had
acquired clothes. Also some medical information
of a sort at a seminary in Philadelphia. His uniform
and rank were due to his having only just failed to
pass a surgeon’s examination given at Harrisburg
by the state military medical authorities, plus the
desperate necessity of the government to retain the
services of anybody who knew the difference between
quinine and arnica, or who could saw off a leg.

Dr. Holtzmaier had, however, some positive
merits as a surgeon. His full-moon face had never
changed its fixed, cheerful expression — even after
Fredericksburg. He had iron muscles and strong,
steady hands. And he insisted upon using chloroform.

He requisitioned chloroform in such lavish
quantities as to cause official questions to be asked.
These he answered truthfully, but in such a way that
the papers he endorsed for return were carefully filed
where no Congressional investigators or superiors
would ever find them. And he got the chloroform,
lethal quantities of it, to put “der mens to schleep.”

Although the surgeon never could understand
why anybody laughed, he could comprehend why
wounded soldiers sometimes groaned. It shocked
his big, boyish, sluggish nervous system. And he
preferred to put the subjects of his by now fairly deft
butchery to sleep rather than to listen to their screams.

The men appreciated this. They called him
“ Chloroform Jesus,” but respected him nevertheless.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 275

Dr. Holtzmaier was shaped something like a ham.
He was slow, literal, kindly, and doggedly con-
scientious. He persisted, however, in regarding Mr.
Felix Mann, the regimental suder, as his foe; as
an agent in league with the devil, or one retained
by the enemy to poison off the regiment en masse.

Mr. Mann, on the contrary, liked the doctor
despite the fact that he stood in great awe of him.
He simply couldn’t understand the surgeon’s objec-
tions to selling the men unlimited quantities of
mouldy pies of his own fearful baking, or anything
else presumably potable or solvent, so long as the
men could and did pay for it. Mr. Mann’s connec-
tion with the regiment was, luckily for him, of
only a semi-military character. It tended to change
with the trend of victory. He had been a pedlar
before the war. Now he was simply pedlar-in-chief,
that is, sutler, to the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry,
which he persistently followed with two wagons
loaded with cargoes of notions, sundries, comestibles
and terrific concoctions and confections.

Apparently his importance was slight. As a matter
of fact, his constant and assiduous supplies of little
comforts and knick-knacks frequently made life on the
field of honour just bearable enough to prevent the
desertion of heroes. Owing to the colonel’s powerful
persuasion, Mr. Mann now kept honest books. His
accounts were paid out of the payroll and so he
adhered to the regiment like a leech. His pertinacity

276 ACTION AT AQUILA

in following it was equalled only by his precipitancy
in leaving it when a fight impended. After a battle,
though, he would always show up, and somehow in-
variably with a supply of those indispensable nothings
which the government had seen fit to overlook.

There was no chaplain with the 6th Pennsyl-
vania Cavalry. The reverend gentleman originally
appointed had developed diarrhoea debilitating in
direct proportion as he approached the front.
Colonel Franklin had not see fit officially to lament
his absence, and the Reverend John McCutcheon of
Standing Stone continued for three years to draw his
salary on sick leave while at home. The mere thought
of artillery was sufficient to reloosen his bowels of
compassion into what was then known as a flux.

Consequently, Mr. Mann performed many of the
absent chaplain’s duties. Messages, letters, gifts, and
personal affairs were confided to him by the men
to be decently and carefully looked after. Both the
love affairs and the death messages of the regiment
frequently passed through his hands. And he did
well. He was a little man with thoughtful brown
eyes. He wore dirty white vests with military
brass buttons, and a wisp of waxen moustache.
It was his ambition to resemble Napoleon III.
Actually he looked like an harassed field mouse.

Secretly, Colonel Franklin regarded the surgeon
and the sutler as two of the most important members
of his command. It was essential, he thought, to

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 277

keep peace between them. But it was by no means
an easy task. Thus, when Dr. Holtzmaier and Mr.
Felix Mann both arrived at the colonel’s tent at
the same time, Mr. Mann was sure that the doctor
had complained of a recent sale of custard pies only
a little indigestible. In fact, the doctor intended
to report the dire effects of some spoiled bottled beer.
Mr. Mann’s moustache started to bristle. The doctor
looked at him with the cold eye of science, ready
to begin his indictment. Just outside the tent fly in
the morning sunshine Private Far far was permitted
for the good of the service and his own soul to stand
at rigid attention during the entire interview.

“Dirty-tree men hit der report dish mornings
mit pelly gomplaints. Pad peer, bery pad!” began
the doctor, fixing his cold gaze upon Mr. Mann.
“Und Isay ...”

“Never mind that,” said the colonel. “We’ll take
up the sick report later. Have you any tea, Mr.
Mann? ”

“ Tea! ” said Mr. Mann, trying to get his mind off
beer. “ Why, yes, sir. But only a pound or two. Pretty
old at that, I’m afraid. There isn’t much call for tea
from the men, you know, sir. Now the beer ...”

“Ja> der peer,” began the doctor.

“ Never mind the beer 1" insisted the colonel. “I’ll
take all the tea you have, Mr. Mann, and I want
you to fill this list for me as soon as possible. What
you haven’t got on hand now, bring up in the next

278 ACTION AT AQUILA

wagon from Harpers Ferry. I’m in a hurry, and it’s
a personal bill of goods for my own use.” He passed
a list over to Mann. “Load what you have of this
on a pack-horse now and have it ready in half an
hour. The young trooper outside will pick it up
directly. That’s all. Good morning.”

Mr. Mann wiped his brow in a relieved manner,
gave the doctor a triumphant look, and departed.
The colonel turned to his disappointed surgeon, and
in a tone so low that young Farfar could not hear
what was being said, talked to him for several minutes.

Goot, goot! Ja, I vill do all I can, gunnel,”
promised the doctor, coming out of the tent.

“Farfar,” said the colonel, “you are to go with
the surgeon to help him.” He gave the boy careful
instructions how to reach Coiner’s Retreat and
cautioned him to keep a close mouth about where
he went and what he did. “I’m picking you because
you can find the way, since you’re used to mountain
country, and because you won’t talk. Here is a note,
doctor, for Mrs. Crittendon — with my compliments.”

The two saluted solemnly and left Colonel
Franklin looking after them a little regretfully.
He would have liked to go himself^ but a busy day
lay before him.

“It’s a gonfadential mission, my poy,” said the
doctor, regarding Farfar a little suspiciously.

Don t talk about it then,” replied Farfar.

From that moment they were friends. The doctor

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 279

was, in his own estimation, a wise and silent man.
His silence, at least, was indubitable.

Less than an hour later they were trotting
through the deserted street at Aquila. Farfar went
ahead, riding his little mount proudly, despite the
fact that he was driving two pack-mules and a
loaded horse before him. His skill in that difficult
art soon caused the doctor, who sat an old horse
uneasily, to follow him with more confidence and to
respect this choice of a new recruit for his guide and
assistant in a mission which the colonel had been at
some pains to describe to him as an important one.

Aquila was not so deserted as it looked. Had the
doctor not been so short-sighted, or Farfar so intent
on his mules, they would have seen the heads of
Mary and Tim Crittendon peep at them out of the
springhouse window. Flossie had brought them
down early that morning to play and to get away
from her father. She herself saw nothing of the
little cavalcade that turned up the stream at the
ford. Farfar was leading now.

“Look,” said the children, “look!” They pointed
at Farfar and whispered together.

Flossie was unaccountably irritable with them now.
Ever since Paul had come back they were afraid of
her. Today they had not even dared to say anything
to her when they found the new dolls. There they
were! Four of them — and the new dishes and furni-
ture ! It was something too magic to try to explain

280 action at aq_tjila

to Flossie. She would certainly have laughed at them
or “got mad.” And now — guess what they had just
seen from the window too? They withdrew into the
shadowy partofthespringhouse. Glancing at Flossie’s
bare feet that stuck through the doorway, they
clutched their new dolls and whispered about them.

Flossie’s toes were slowly wiggling. That was the
only sign that she was alive.

She sat leaning back in the doorway, where
Mrs. Crittendon had sat the day before. The warm
sun drenched the lower half of her body. Her sun-
bonnet was pulled down over her eyes and her
mouth was half-open. Behind the barred calico
shade, under the blue veins of her slightly swollen
eyelids, swam and eddied visions of Paul, visions
of Flossie and Paul. She had waited so long for
Paul. It was more than a year now. She was
unappeasably hungry for him. No one, not even
Paul himself, wished that his arm would get better
more fervently than did Flossie Kiskadden.

First love when fully awakened, as hers had been,
can become a monomania, an all-absorbing fever
.of body and soul. It is the concern of Nature to
perpetuate life and to render her servants blind to
consequences. Flossie could see nothing but Paul
even with her sunbonnet over her eyes.

Two miles away on the level river meadows
below Aquila, Colonel Franklin was putting his
regiment through the morning drill. The turf

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 281

trembled and spurted under the hoofs of the
squadrons. Men and horses halted and sprang
forward obedient to the voice of the trumpet. The
silk guidons snapped in the wind. The colonel
brought the entire regiment into line. It was a line
of centaurs a quarter of a mile long. Then he swung
them like a giant scythe blade devouring that
meadow grass. Only a coward or a liar would have
been unable to see that here was something mag-
nificent accompanied by thunder.

The heart of Nathaniel Franklin leaped up and re-
joiced. The fever of the exaltation of power clutched
at his throat. For an instant he experienced ecstasy.

It is the concern of Nature to bring about death
and to render her servants blind to consequences.
Colonel Franklin could see nothing but his regiment.
They began to fire volleys by squadrons. Great clouds
of yellow smoke enveloped them and rolled away.

Just about this time Farfar and Dr. Holtzmaier
turned up the small stream in the forest. At the top
of the dam they could hear the crash of the volleys
distinctly. Once on the other side of it, all that
pother was only an indistinct mutter amid the hills.
Presently there was nothing to be heard but the
voice of the little river and the rustle of fallen leaves.

“Himmel!” exclaimed the doctor, looking about
him as far as his short-sightedness would permit
even the distance here blurred pleasantly. It s
like a poem by Heine. Himmel !” . . .

282

ACTION AT AQUILA

“ Here they come,” shouted Margaret Crittendon
a few minutes later to her mother, who was sitting
upstairs with Paul. “Look out of the window,
mother, here they come!”

Mrs. Crittendon breathed a prayer of relief, but
she did not look out of the window or come down.
She supposed the colonel would be there too. At
the thought of him a quiet diffidence overcame her.
Her diffidence gradually turned into a certain
degree of resentment, and she sat with bur ning
cheeks and knitted brows. Paul patted her hand.

“It’s hard to take help from them, isn’t it,
Aunt Libby?” said he.

“Oh, Paul,” said Mrs. Crittendon, “sometimes
I wonder what’s going to become of us. If it hadn’t
been for your arm ...”

“ If it hadn’t been for the war, you mean, Aunt
Libby,” whispered Paul. She nodded. Downstairs
she heard her daughter’s feet trip eagerly across
the porch to meet the new-comers.

Dr. Holtzmaier dismounted awkwardly and came
up the garden path with a kit of instruments,
splints, and bandages in his hand. He removed his
hat as awkwardly as he had dismounted. “Der
gunnel — ” he began. But he saw that Miss Critten-
don was not looking at him. Her eyes appeared to
be fixed permanently upon young Farfar, who was
tethering his mount to the ring-post at the gate.

Farfar leaned over the gate and looked at

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 283

Margaret. He had never seen so beautiful a girl.
She was wearing a Paisley shawl and a small
flounced hoop-skirt. Her hair fell down over her
shoulders in a cascade of golden-brown curls. To
the lonely heart of the mountain boy she seemed the
ultimate, unattainable vision of poetic beauty,
the lady in the ballads for whom everybody
suffered and died. He smiled at her unwittingly,
a smile of surprised recognition. For the first time
Margaret now became aware of him, and of a
pair of haunting grey eyes. She actually smiled
back. William Farfar caught his breath.

Dr. Holtzmaier by this time was considerably
embarrassed. Apparently the young lady could not
see him at all.

“Der gunnel — ” he began again, clearing his
throat.

Margaret put her hands together ecstatically.
“Oh,” she cried, “oh, it’s Midge! They’ve brought
her back ! ”

She danced down the path past the doctor, her
feet twinkling under her petticoats faster and faster.
She ran madly through the gate that Farfar held
open for her — and flung her arms about the neck
of the little mare.

“ Midge! ” she cried. “ Midge, you darling, where
have you been?”

The mare nuzzled her softly and put her nose in
the girl’s hand. She began to stamp for sugar.

284 ACTION AT AQUILA

Nothing had ever pleased Margaret so much in
her life. The little horse had been her companion
since childhood, the first thing that had truly been
her own. She was greatly excited. That her pony’s
return was a mere accident never entered her
mind. She had a tremendous impulse to thank
someone, anybody!

“You,” said she turning to Far far impulsively, her
eyes dancing. “You brought her back, didn’t you?”

He nodded, smiling.

“Why, I think you’re the nicest boy in the
world!” she suddenly exclaimed. And scarcely
conscious of what she was doing, she threw her
arms around him just as though he were Midge,
and gave him a kiss on the neck.

But William Farfar was no pony. Since first
seeing Margaret he was convinced that anything
might come true. Now she had kissed him. It was
true that he had drawn back at first in sheer sur-
prise. Now, just as she herself fully realized what she
had done, she felt his arms about her and his mouth
on hers.

To Margaret that, too, was an enormous surprise.

She forgot all about horses. For a moment natural
electricity fused them. They stood close and dizzy.

“ Gott-damn ! ” said the doctor, looking on, bewil-
dered but envious.

Then Margaret seized Farfar by the shoulders
and sent him reeling back against the little horse.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 285

“You — you — ” said she, stuttering with vexation
and astonishment — “you kissed me!”

“You kissed me” said the lad.

“Oh, I didn’t. I didn’t,” she asserted, stamping
her foot. “ I tell you, I didn’t ! ” She stuck her tongue
out at him. “ I hate you! ” She turned her back, and
walked down the garden path, giving her curls a flirt.

Farfar stood appalled. “ I’ll take your horse away
again,” he cried after her at last.

That brought her around. She shook her head
violently. He nodded. They repeated it. This
pastime was still going on when Mrs. Grittendon
emerged from the door.

“ Margaret Crittendon, what’s the matter with
you?” called her mother. “Why don’t you ask
these people to come in? You look as if you’d been
running to a fire.”

“ Oh, I was going to ask them in,” said Margaret
in a curious tone her mother had never heard her
use before. “But you see I’m . . . I’m all excited
. . . they’ve brought Midge back.”

“So they have!” cried her mother. “Splendid!
That certainly is thoughtful of Colonel Franklin.
Her estimate of that gentleman immediately soared.

But just at this point Dr. Holtzmaier managed to
get in his speech about “der gunnel” and summoned
enough presence of mind to present the colonel s note.

Mrs. Crittendon greeted him civilly and stood
on the porch to read the note. Her daughter walked

286 ACTION AT AQUILA

past her, and going into the room, sat down in
the nearest chair. She was still trembling and
wanted to cry. She had danced down the garden
path a little girl and had come back a woman. For
the first time in her life she experienced a genuine
antagonism towards her mother. She closed her
eyes. The clock struck twice.

“Oh, dear heavens, mother,” said she as Mrs.
Crittendon and the doctor came in to go upstairs
to Paul’s room, “I do wish you’d have that clock
fixed. It’s just awful!”

Her mother looked at her in amazement. Then
she looked at her more keenly and smiled. ,

“I think you had best ask the young man at
the gate to come in, hadn’t you? He might be
lonely out there.” Then she swept upstairs, followed
by the doctor.

Margaret sat blushing to the roots of her hair.
After a while she got up and beckoned to Farfar.
He was lonely. The sky seemed to have fallen.
Now it was brightening again. She stood at the head
of the porch steps and bargained with him.

“If I let you come in, promise not to take Midge
away again?”

“I’ll promise,” he said. “Honest — honest I
didn’t mean I really would take her away, miss.
I jes’ naturally couldn’t, you know.”

They stood for a moment looking at each other.
Their eyes dropped.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 287

“Come in, mister. Mister what?”

“Farfar,” he whispered. “Billy they call me.”

“I’m Margaret Crittendon,” said she as they sat
down at opposite ends of the hearth.

“ My,” he exclaimed, “ ain’t that a lovely name ! ”

Miss Crittendon agreed and finally smiled at
him.

Upstairs Dr. Holtzmaier was preparing to set
Paul’s arm.

It was by no means a simple undertaking. Paul’s
arm had been shattered two weeks before at a
skirmish near Woodstock. His regiment had been
sent forward to create what is known as a “diver-
sion.” A federal battery of six-pounders, called the
Cincinnati Board of Trade Artillery, had been
considerably disturbed, and even after the diversion
was over had continued to fire occasional nervous
rounds in the general direction of the Confederate
lines. The small round shot came crashing and
ricochetting through the woods past Paul’s com-
pany. Some of the spent balls rolled out onto a
level glade of turf near by as though spirits were
playing bowls. Someone of unsound mind and
murderous humour had dared Paul “to try to
stop the next one.” The boy had actually attempted
to do so with an iron spade.

Momentum embodied in a six-pound ball is a
curious thing. The shot, which seemed to be rolling
very gently, struck the blade of the steel shovel and

288 ACTION AT AQUILA

travelled right up the handle into Paul’s left hand.
The result was, somehow, an arm broken in three
places between wrist and elbow, and the elbow
wrenched out of joint. In great agony the boy had
waited patiently for a day to have it set at a field
hospital. But the place was filling up with wounded,
and there was only one surgeon, who was trying
to tie up severed arteries and couldn’t stop just to
set an arm which had been broken as a joke.

The boy’s home was only twenty miles away
across the Valley. Despairing of relief at the field
hospital, he had set out in the middle of the night.
Two days later he arrived home delirious, to find
his uncle’s house burned. A negro poking about the
ruins told him the family had fled to the hills and
Paul had guessed they would be at Coiner’s
Retreat.

Dr. Holtzmaier considered it a miracle that blood
poisoning had not set in, and he was quite right
when he shook his head gravely at the sight of the
arm.

Cold water had greatly reduced the swelling,
but the arm was now so tender that even a fight
touch of the doctor’s fingers dragged a stifled scream
from between the boy’s clenched teeth.

The doctor took his canteen, and uncorking it,
poured out a glassful of chloroform. He then asked
for a towel, and saturating it, would have pressed
it down on his patient’s face with the same technique

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 289

as that used by a burglar had not Paul violently
objected. Things were now at an impasse. Paul
could not stand having his arm handled and would
not permit the ill-smelling towel to come near his
face. All reasoning with him was in vain.

Downstairs Farfar and Margaret had ceased
looking shyly at each other and were listening to
the sounds of distress from the sick-room, with
averted faces. Paul began to call for Flossie, who
had not come back yet. Margaret got up, and
excusing herself, went upstairs. It was Mrs. Critten-
don who finally solved the difficulty. Seeing
Margaret’s pale face looking in at the door, she
told her to go and bring up the young Yankee to
see Paul. This appeal to her nephew’s pride was
Mrs. Crittendon’s last resource.

The appearance of young Farfar at the door of
the room seemed instantly to steady Paul. The
two looked at each other appraisingly but with the
sympathy of youth for youth.

Dr. Holtzmaier had the grace to keep quiet.

“Hello, Yank,” said Paul.

“Hello, Johnny,” said Farfar. “’Pears like you’re
in a bad way.”

Paul was all the stoic now. He bit his lower lip
till it was blue before he finally replied. He would
rather have had his other arm broken than be
heard calling for Flossie now, or be seen in an
hysterical state.

Ta

2go ACTION AT AQUILA

“Yep,” said he at last, “got my arm shattered in
a little old skirmish.”

“Golly!” said Farfar, with genuine admiration
that was a sedative to Paul. He now lay back
looking as weak as he could.

At this moment Dr. Holtzmaier approached with
the towel again. The two boys looked at each other.

“So long, Yank,” said Paul, determined to make
his last words to the enemy heroic. “Gimme your
hand, Aunt Libby.” Margaret added the only note
lacking to make what Paul considered a perfect
bedside scene. She sobbed.

The towel descended upon Paul’s face. The
fumes were terrible and terrified him. He choked.
But it would never do to weaken now, never! The
last thing he heard was Dr. Holtzmaier repeating
almost like a ritual again and again:

“Blease preathe teep.”

The boy sighed and ceased to struggle.

Ten minutes later under the expert and powerful
fingers of Dr. Holtzmaier the arm was set and the
elbow back in place. There had been no splintered
bones. Mrs. Crittendon threw the reeking towel
out the window and helped while the splints and
bandages were put on. As the last tie was made,
she also sighed. She sat down in a chair overcome
by the fumes. The doctor had used enough chloro-
form to send a horse to dreamland. Paul did not
waken till late that afternoon.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER £291

When Mrs. Crittendon came downstairs with the
doctor at last she found everybody outside busy
about the horses. Old Mr. Kiskadden was hitching
her own horse to the buggy to go and get Flossie
and the children at the springhouse. Farfar was
unloading his pack animals and piling the supplies
on the cabin floor. Margaret was at the gate
fondling Midge.

“Kin I come again to see you? I could help
take care of Paul,” said Farfar to Margaret, as
he and the doctor prepared to depart. He had no
thought of taking Midge back. He had made his
promise and he would keep it whatever the con-
sequences.

“Oh, please do,” said Margaret, with a tone so
anxious and genuine that she coloured at not
being able to conceal it better. She hated to see
her new friend go.

“Try to come back this evening,” she said.
“There’s nobody but the old man to watch over
us now that Paul’s so ill.” Her expression was a
mute appeal in itself.

“I’ll come,” he said.

Just then the doctor shouted to him. He rode
off down the valley on the pack-horse, driving the
mules before him.

Margaret watched him go with a strange fore-
boding and sense of loss that she had never known
before. It was all she could do not to jump on Midge

292 ACTION AT AQUILA

and follow. Instead, she led her horse to the old slab
stable and unsaddled her.

When she returned to the cabin Mrs. Crittendon
was sitting with a look of inexpressible relief by
the ashes of last night’s fire. Her daughter thought
she looked young again.

Paul’s arm was set and bandaged. The house
was full of supplies. Hope had returned — all since
yesterday afternoon. She and Margaret began to
sort out the things they had so unexpectedly
“inherited,” with exclamations of delight. No
doubt about it, Colonel Franklin had been both
thoughtful and generous.

There was not only a great quantity of food, a
whole muleload of army rations of all kinds, but
blankets, shoes, and clothes; a number of little
articles out of the sutler’s store that delighted the
two women and sometimes made them laugh.
There was even a straw bonnet with a pink bow
on it, and some candy and pretty knick-knacks
for the children.

“Just the thing for Flossie,” said Mrs. Critten-
don, surveying the bonnet critically. “Where do
you suppose he got it?”

It was Margaret’s turn now to look at her
mother, at the high colour in her cheeks. But the
new goods were delightful. It was like being on a
shopping tour. She and Margaret chatted away.
A single bottle of real English ale caused Mrs.

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 293

Crittendon to exclaim. But that was nothing to
the tea. Two packages of it! — and a large bundle
of old newspapers, both Northern and Southern.

Mrs. Crittendon brewed herself some tea and
sat down with the Richmond Enquirer, only about
two months old, for her first moment of genuine
relaxation in many weeks. No one but an English-
woman could understand what the tea meant.
Margaret sprawled out on the floor reading a
Baltimore paper. They were still having dances
there. She exclaimed over the names of friends.
While they read, and waited for Mr. Kiskadden
to return with the children, the sunlight crept
slowly in the cabin door and began to retreat
again.

“Oh, my dear, my dear!” suddenly exclaimed
Mrs. Crittendon. “Look! Thank God for his
mercies.” She was pointing at a small item in her
Richmond paper. Margaret scrambled to her
feet and looked over her mother’s shoulder.

We regret to state that during a minor but
successful engagement with the federal cavalry
at Cross Keys in the Valley some days ago.
Major Douglas Charles Crittendon of General
Early’s staff was wounded and taken prisoner.
It is reported that his wounds are of a trivial
nature, and it is hoped he will soon be exchanged.
Major Crittendon is a brilliant and gallant

294 ACTION AT AQUILA

officer. The temporary loss of his services will be

sadly missed by his able chief.

Charlottesville papers please copy.

“There!” said Mrs. Crittendon, wiping her
eyes. “I knew it! Your father’s safe in a Yankee
prison, if he doesn’t die there. Anyway, he’s out of
the war. He’s out of the war!” she reiterated,
beating her hands on the arms of her chair.

“And Midge’s come back too,” said Margaret
after a while.

“You goose,” said Mrs. Crittendon, clasping
her daughter. But for the second time that day she
felt profoundly grateful to Colonel Franklin.

The children returned to an ample lunch and a
renewed sense of home. They caught the spirit of
cheerfulness and it was hard to keep them so quiet
as not to disturb Paul. Flossie watched by his bed all
afternoon. About five o’clock he opened his eyes and
found her watching him. He had slept off the chloro-
form quietly. After a while the room ceased to swim.

Just before supper the colonel and Farfar rode
up to the cabin again.

“I’m accepting your invitation this evening,
Mrs. Crittendon, you see,” he said simply.

The look in her face of life-renewed more than
rewarded him for anything he had done. He had
the feeling now that he had been completely
forgiven. He felt like a gentleman again. The burn-

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 295

ing had been badly on his conscience. Why she
was so happy, he had no idea. He had not seen
the paragraph in the Richmond paper. He seldom
read newspapers — only the New York Tribune,
because Bayard Taylor owned stock in it and
wrote for it. He never read Southern papers at
all. They seemed insane; their optimism idiotic.

But that Mrs. Crittendon was now very happy
there could be no doubt. The packet he had
brought with him again, firmly intending to deliver
it, remained in his pocket. This was no time to
strike her down. They sat down to a plentiful
board together and would have been almost
uproarious if it had not been for Paul.

They were, as Mrs. Crittendon said after supper,
“discreetly hilarious.” They played games till the
children went to bed, clutching their new dolls.
No word of explanation could be had from either
Tim or Mary about the dolls. The colonel and
Mrs. Crittendon laughed. The children went to
bed with their new favourites. Margaret and
Farfar sat by the fire together, speechlessly happy,
looking into the flames. While the colonel and
Mrs. Crittendon talked, Mr. Kiskadden whittled
sticks in the corner. The colonel returned to camp
about ten o’clock, leaving Farfar behind him.

“He’s a guard you can trust, even if he is a horse
thief,” he remarked to Margaret as he said good
night, and his eyes twinkled.

296 ACTION AT AQUILA

He had accepted the thanks for the return of
the pony without saying anything. The colonel
did not believe in explaining away fate. The
packet remained in his pocket. He raised his hat
again to Mrs. Crittendon and rode off. How
different it was this evening from the night before.

It was an intensely quiet, for that time of year a
sultry, night. The stars seemed to be hung low in
canopies of black velvet. Moonlight tinged the
clouds on the mountain horizons. The colonel
arrived in camp and turned in. He awoke later
feeling breathless, and uneasy about the pickets.
He mounted Black Girl and made the rounds.
All was quiet, all was ominously quiet.

Late in the night Mrs. Crittendon awoke with the
same feeling. She felt as though she must get out of the
house. Across the hall she could hear Paul and Farfar
talking. The two friendly young voices went on in the
darkness. There was an occasional tone of humour;
the sound of water as Farfar kept Paul’s bandages
wet. The boys seemed to be the best of friends. Mrs.
Crittendon dressed herself and went downstairs.

Margaret was sitting in the big room before the
hearth. She was wide awake.

“I knew you’d be coming down pretty soon,
mother,” said she. “This is the kind of night neither
of us can sleep. It feels like the war,” she exclaimed.
“You just know something dreadful must be
happening.”

THE LAST OF INDIAN SUMMER 297

“Let’s go for a ride,” said her mother. “We
can ride down to the dam and back again. There’ll
be moonlight in the meadows.”

The two went out and saddled the horses. In
the barn it was overpoweringly warm, and there
was a curious creepy feeling to both of the women
— mice under the hay?

A few minutes later they were sitting together
looking out over the Valley from the top of the
dam. The stream below talked soothingly. But it
was not that they were listening to. It was a kind
of distant shuddering like organ music that seemed
to be the discontented voices of the mountains
themselves muttering together. Their horses stood
with their ears pricked, facing westward.

Above the middle range of the Massanuttens,
reflected back to them from the clouds on the other
side of the Valley, came a constant infernal glow
and red flashing. It was like continuous heat
lightning but not so white, not so innocent. An
hour later the whole Blue Ridge was echoing to
a dismal and distant rumbling.

General Sheridan heard it that morning as he
spurred out of Winchester and tore madly south
towards Strasburg, rallying stragglers along the
way. “Turn back, turn back!” Once again for a
moment history pivoted on personality. The dogs
of war growled on amid the mountains. The creeks
ran red.

298 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Thank God,” said Mrs. Crittendon devoutly,
“thank God, your father isn’t there — and Paul!”

Margaret said nothing, but to Mrs. Crittendon’s
list of dear ones kept safe she silently added another
name and felt warm in the darkness for doing so.

It was not until next evening that they heard
the regiment in the Valley below them break
into thunderous cheers. The couriers from Win-
chester had just come in.

“Another Union victory,” said Mrs. Crittendon
stoically. She hoped the war would soon be over.
She wanted to resume life.

Margaret went into a corner and cried. She
cared much for “the cause” in her heart. She had
been born in Virginia. The weather was still
strangely like summer and seemed, like the time
on Major Crittendon’s clock, permanently to have
halted. Perhaps it would have been better for
everybody if the clock had always stayed that
way, with the hours halted and only trivial minutes
to pass.

One — two , one — two , all through the night.

Everybody at Coiner’s Retreat now slept soundly
except Flossie. She lay on her elbow, looking into
the darkness, waiting. It seemed to her that some-
thing terrible was lying in wait in the darkness of
the house. Paul cried out in his sleep.

CHAPTER XVI

THE GIANT’S NURSERY

Time, of course, continued. It was only
the weather that paused. As unalterable days went on
into weeks, and Indian summer still lingered, some-
thing ominous seemed to be accumulating over the
smiling but lonely Valley. In the camp by the gorge
Colonel Franklin was distinctly aware of it. Perhaps
it was the felt, internal necessity that events should
be brought to a climax and resolved by action.

Under the essential scheme of drill, drill — and
no one to practise war upon— the regiment had
grown a little restless. Discipline is a state of tension,
and it must either be used or relaxed. If not used,
it relaxes itself. Besides, the victory at Winchester
had brought to all the Union troops in the Valley
the sense that a final move was impending. Sheridan
had only snatched that victory from defeat, but
Early’s army had finally been nearly annihilated.
What was left of the Confederate forces now lay
at the extreme upper part of the Valley, hiding in
the hills and licking their wounds, definitely and
at last brought to bay. They, too, were waiting,
waiting to be shifted to reinforce Lee about
Richmond for a last desperate stand.

300 ACTION AT AQUILA

Nevertheless, the colonel hoped he would not
soon be moved. He would have liked nothing better
th an to winter at Aquila. It was an ideal spot. The
whole camp was built in now, well-hutted. He
had even housed over the picket lines with con-
demned canvas and pine boughs, and had accumu-
lated a great store of forage. Although it was
nearly November and the pastures were yet green,
still winter, when it did come, would probably
come with a rush. His farmers in the ranks had
actually enjoyed cutting and storing hay. They
had levied a rich toll upon deserted pastures.

At night the glee club sang. Headquarters had
a quartette. The colonel’s own baritone, he liked
to think, was at least appreciated. Captain Kerr
had a fine tenor. They sang all the old favourites:
“Babylon is Fallen,” “Wake Nicodemus,” Foster’s
“Was My Brother in the Battle?” But when
they began on Foster they always went back into
old times and ended with “Old Folks at Home.”
Saturdays there were theatricals, and on Sundays
a “sacred concert.”

Felix Mann reroofed an old farm building near
the river, and bringing up several fresh wagon-
loads of goods from Harpers Ferry, conducted a
prosperous little shop that was at once an unofficial
post office and a regimental canteen.

Everybody was exceedingly snug; everybody
agreed it would be a pity to leave all this to go

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 30 1

back to midwinter mud marches on the Peninsula.
And yet there was an undercurrent of restlessness.
So much peace in the midst of general havoc
seemed unnatural.

“Pretty soon,” said Captain Fetter Kerr, “the
sentries will begin to see things. This constant
chorus of nightbirds is hard to bear. I never heard
so many owls and whippoorwills in my life. The
woods seem packed with ’em.” He made up a
camp song about them with innumerable woo-
woo’s for a chorus.

Besides the regiment, the colonel had the family
at Coiner’s Retreat much on his mind. For better
or for worse he had now, so to speak, taken them
under his wing. He and Dr. Holtzmaier visited
Coiner’s Retreat quite constantly. Far far was
there more or less all of his spare time. And there
was a good deal of spare time, particularly in the
afternoons and evenings. Yet so complete was the
concealment of the little valley that, outside of a
few members of the staff, no one in the regiment
suspected that the Crittendons were near. Colonel
Franklin had been more than careful to respect
his promise and Mrs. Crittendon’s continued desire
for complete privacy.

The colonel had soon learned of her belief that
her husband was still alive and safe in some
Northern prison. She had even given him letters
to forward to Major Crittendon and solicited his

302 ACTION AT AQUILA

advice as to what could be done for him. He
sadly promised to do all that he could, for she
seemed to be building her entire hope for the
future on the expectation of reunion after the war.
His admiration for her indomitable hope and
cheerfulness under conditions of hardship, which
would have made many a man useless and miser-
able, continually increased. He might be wrong,
in a way he was disobeying orders in not giving
her her husband’s packet — doubtless it contained
a last message — but he could not think of having
aided her only to strike her down. It was a nice
point to decide. He pondered it often — and he
kept putting it off.

Meanwhile, partly as a salve to his conscience,
but more largely out of a deep well of natural
kindness, he provided for the little establishment
at Coiner’s Retreat in every way that he could.
Farfar and old man Kiskadden between them cut a
large supply of fire-wood against the winter. The
little barn was stuffed with hay. The loft of the
cabin was filled with flour, bacon, potatoes, and
preserved provisions. If the regiment did move,
Mrs. Crittendon could hold on for six months.
That thought was a comfort to the man who had
burned her house as her husband’s funeral pyre.
He was in a unique and difficult situation. The right
way out was by no means clear.

Otherwise, Colonel Franklin had little to worry

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 303

about. He lived, and enjoyed the life of a soldier
probably at its best. The sun passed over his head
from one mountain range to the other, marking
the even flow of busy but uneventful days. There
were no alarms. Indeed, he felt more secure than
ever. Headquarters had at last heeded his repeated
requests for a force in reserve and sent his old
friends of the 23rd Illinois Infantry and a spick-
and-span battery of Rhode Island Artillery to
“back him up” at Luray. This force was only a
few miles down the river, just far enough away to be
“near” and yet to let him alone. Now he could
not be cut off by a raid over the Blue Ridge in his
rear. If the enemy finally came, they would have
to get at him through the gorge from the south.
That at least was that! He buckled his sabre on
contentedly, and went out to look over the drills
and target practice with the new carbines.

It was another beautiful morning.

On the porch of her cabin Mrs. Crittendon sat
chin in hand, enjoying the unusual warmth.
With her hair in heavy morning braids, she looked
not unlike a Northern sibyl, and she was trying,
as a matter of fact, to peer a few years into th
future.

Most of her dreams, as the colonel had correctly
surmised, centred about the return of her husband
after the war. The war would almost have ruined
them, but not quite. Elizabeth Crittendon had

304 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

already concluded out of general information and
intelligence that the Federals would prevail. She
intended to accept that as a practical fact and
to ease the sting by keeping her eyes fixed on the
future. She had a strong, sweet English nature and
could be firm without being bitter. The welfare
of her daughter Margaret and of the two young
children of her husband’s brother, Tim and little
Mary, whom she now regarded as her own, was
therefore the main desire of her heart. Paul she
was not so sure of. The war, she felt, had blighted
his promise. An ardent and high-strung boy, he had
been passed through the fire. The loss of his home,
grief, terror, fatigue, and wounds had all been his
lot before he was seventeen. Flossie had taken what
remained : his pride in himself as a member of an
honourable class.

A few years before, Mrs. Crittendon would not
have permitted such a girl as Flossie to be at home
on her property or even to be discussed in her
presence. Now it seemed to her, as battle had
succeeded battle, and the old life and the codes
by which it had been lived vanished with those
who had made them, that Flossie Kiskadden
might be all of life that Paul would ever know.

War is a powerful solvent. Mrs. Crittendon was
not only an Englishwoman, she was the wife of a
Virginian. Yet now she could look on Flossie as a
fellow human being and understand her. She had

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 305

for Paul’s sake, and for Flossie’s, permitted the old
minister and his daughter to share the retreat at
the cabin. The old man regarded her with suspicion
for having done so. The Kiskaddens were not poor
whites — not quite.

Thus steering as best she could through all the
vicissitudes, complications, and outrageous changes
that the war had brought her, Mrs. Crittendon
was still steadfast to salvage what remained of her
life and to build into the future anew. She had some
money of her own left in England, and excellent
family connections there. Margaret, she was deter-
mined, should have the benefit of both. After the war,
come what might, her daughter should go abroad.

For the rest, she and her husband would hold
the fort at Coiner’s Retreat until the other children
grew up. They could do a little planting, hunting,
and fishing. They would be together — what else
mattered? There would be land and a house, love
and hope.

Someday Margaret would be getting married.
There might be a home for her somewhere too.
Perhaps the land in the Valley could be farmed
again; “Whitesides” rebuilt on a smaller scale?
Perhaps old Grandmamma Crittendon who had
gone to Richmond might leave them something,
if she still had something to leave? Perhaps Paul,
after the war was over, might prove a help, after
all? Perhaps, perhaps . . . who knew?

Ua

306 action at aq,uila

So dreamed Mrs. Crittendon with her chin
in her hand, looking out upon the little valley,
while inside the cabin the clock still continued to
chime Major Crittendon’s eternal time. Elizabeth
Crittendon took a secret and peculiar pleasure in the
obstinacy of that clock. It chimed in with her dreams.

Actually the seeds of reality were planted for a
harvest quite different.

In the old cellar of the burned house at “ White-
sides” the ants that morning were also trying to
surmount difficulties. They, too, had built a new
home in the ashes and the sands beneath. But one
of Major Crittendon’s buttons was in the way.
It was a steel button, made in Sheffield, that had
once caught the inside loop of the major’s coat
when he buttoned dispatches next to his heart.
Now it was in the way of the ants. Their engineers
conferred about it extensively. Not all the might of
antdom could move it. They decided to undermine
it. Slowly but inevitably the button disappeared
beneath the surface. Presently it was covered over,
buried. It was the last palpable memento of Major
Crittendon which remained, except for the packet
in Colonel Franklin’s coat-pocket.

And as for Margaret —

“Margaret will marry someday,” Mrs. Crit-
tendon had said, but she had no idea of the present
state of her daughter’s heart. It was engaged.
Lips had not said so in words, but in other ways.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 307

Now that Midge had been returned, Margaret
had taken to riding up and down and around the
little valley every afternoon. The three women
divided the duties of the household, the children,
and looking after Paul fairly between them.
Mrs. Crittendon, however, seldom left the house.
She rode early in the mornings and returned to
get the breakfast. She had long ago come to the
conclusion that the only way to retain full control
of her household was to be up and about before
anybody else. There was a primary wisdom in
this habit, but things can also happen in the
afternoon. And the afternoons were Margaret’s.

Farfar generally managed to arrive about two
o’clock. He was free then till evening roll-call.
Margaret would meet him, seated on Midge,
waiting at the foot of the dam with her eyes shining
and her straw bonnet thrown back on her shoulders.
This vision of her, with her curls glinting in the
long sunlight, and a deep green, though faded
bow tied under her chin, was burned into the boy’s
memory until he dreamed of it at night. If she
didn’t meet him, his anxiety was intense. He
would ride up to the cabin then with his heart in
his mouth. But she nearly always met him.

From, the colonel the boy had learned the trick
of raising his hat. He did so unnecessarily grandly
just as he rode up to her. It had become understood
between them that this^was not only a salutation

308 ACTION AT AQUILA

but a signal for a race. They would gallop off
together, storming up the valley. Mrs. Crittendon
would look out as the two young figures flashed
by and the drumming of hoofs passed away
up the meadow. Farfar rode well. The long drills
were having their effect. Margaret’s curls and
bonnet streamed behind her in the wind. Her
mother thought of many a ride with her cousins
long ago across wide English downs, and smiled.
It was all quite harmless, she was sure. How Midge
could scamper!

Half a mile above the cabin the little valley sud-
denly narrowed and swung at an acute angle to the
right. There was a decided ravine there with a narrow
bridle path along the river. Then there was quite a
rise and a waterfall, and the valley widened out again.

The children called that upper part of Coiner’s
Retreat “the Giant’s Nursery.” It was almost like
a green room, roofless, but with straight, high walls
of rock covered with ferns. The floor was of a
particularly fine turf that flourishes in shade on
leaf mould. There were a few huge trees scattered
about like the survivors of some more than primeval
forest. They, indeed, went back into time. The
wind could scarcely get at the place. The sun always
fell upon part of it. The stream curved through it,
talking as though the silent earth had suddenly
given tongue here, singing a wordy tune in a
universal language.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 309

Scattered widely about over the floor of this
natural and branch-starred apartment was a
jumble of roughly-square but grotesquely-shaped
rocks. They might have fallen from heaven, or
they might have been left there spilled out like
huge toy blocks by the ruthless hand of some
infant giant who had demolished his own play
castle and gone away. So at least Major Grittendon
had once told his little daughter Margaret. And
“the Giant’s Nursery” it had been from that day
forth. Now’ in the light of days that no longer
troubled her father’s eyes Margaret Grittendon
had come riding there with her first lover.

And it was all quite naive and genuinely touch-
ing. If the wraith of the major had walked there he
might have smiled. He might even have dashed a
few ghostly tears from his spiritual eyes. Those,
indeed, were the only kind of eyes that were entitled
to peer at William Farfar and Margaret. For their
walks were innocent and beautiful, very young,
tender, and virginally green.

They sat upon the same rock and gazed at each
other. They said almost nothing at all. They
were too shy, too choked with their overwhelming
affection in the presence of each other to speak. The
stream spoke for them a swift and fluid language,
a long exclamation of soft and liquid vowels. That,
thought Margaret, is how birds feel in the spring.

“I like Indian summer,” she ventured once.

“I love it,” he said.

After a while they dared to look each other in
the eyes, and they practised losing themselves that
way. They gazed at each other, heaven only knows
how long! Sometimes then she would let him take
her hand. He knew she would not let him kiss
her again. It was enough just to look at her.
They saw each other’s angels. For even the light
of those autumn days was magicked. Something
lay at its outer edges like the iridescence on the
feathers of a wild bird’s breast. When the bird
dies the rainbow dies with it. Each seemed to the
other to be surrounded by some such nimbus;
to live in a secret glory of light. Margaret always
remembered that. In after days she never saw it
again. She called it “the lost light.”

So — while the horses wandered with trailing
reins, cropping the choice herbage in sunny spots,
Margaret and Farfar watched them and each
other in the light of a happy dream. Or, they would
wander down the little bridle path by the ravine
to sail leaf boats, and stand hand in hand, speechless
over the tragedy of shipwrecks or thrilled like the
children they were at some lucky craft that shot
successfully through the dark rapid below. Farfar
seemed to be prophetic about them, to be casting
their futures by every craft they launched.

“This one will make it,” he would whisper.
So few of them got through!

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 3II

It was true that in wandering the woods Farfar
had a peculiar fascination all his own. It was not
only that young Margaret was in love with being
in love with him. There was a quality of kinship
in the lad himself that had been heightened by
finding his love returned; exalted into a blithe
happiness and feeling of well-being and fellowship
with everything that lived and moved about him
until, to Margaret, the best of warm-hearted,
affectionate companions and her lover were one
and the same. When they were near each other,
especially when they were alone together, they
lived brightly. By contrast, they found that they
merely existed darkly when apart.

And yet scarcely anything memorable was said.
It was understood. That seemed, to them both,
wonderful. Farfar spoke one day of the cabin high
above the river where he had been born. She was
to go there with him sometime. It was inevitable.

“I shall miss my river,” she said simply, “and
my hills. There is a song about them.

‘High is my mountain land
And grand its hills and valleys,

Tall are its sons and daughters.

Laughing Bills and Sallys,

O Shenandoah, roll, O Shenandoah, roll,

O roll your lovely waters
Through my land.’

312 ACTION AT AQUILA

Have you a song about your river?” she asked,

tossing her curls.

“No,” he answered shyly, “but I kin whistle.
I kin make the birds answer me in our woods
back home.”

She sat listening. He didn’t move his lips.
The sounds came from his throat. She guessed
that his tongue moved. The woods were suddenly
full of bird song. Some of them she recognized.
It was his triumph to lure a belated blue jay near
and then to send him away scolding.

“I reckon,” she said after a while, “that bird
thought it was spring again.”

Farfar laughed. Suddenly a thrush seemed to
call. It was far away.

“Don’t you feel like that, Margaret? It is
spring again! Don’t you feel it?”

“Yes,” she said, only rounding the word with her
lips in a silent whisper.

He laid his head in her lap and she crumbled
brown leaves over him in a silent embarrassment of
ecstasy.

“Now,” she said after a while, “Willum, it’s
just Indian summer again.”

They caught the two horses with some difficulty.
It was great fun cornering them among the big
rocks. The Giant’s Nursery rang with happy
human laughter. Farfar’s best moment came when
he helped Margaret into the saddle. Then they were

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 313

very near for an instant. She let him hold her close
to him once. He felt as though he had captured
a young doe. Both of them trembled. Then she
broke away from him, flinging herself into the saddle.
Before he could overtake her she was half-way
back to the cabin. That day he was absent from
even roll-call.

Two days of inexorable fatigue duty followed.
When he returned it seemed that a year had passed
since he had last seen her. That was the only time
she told him she hated the Yankee Army. But now
he had permission to stay late. The nights were
getting colder. They sat close together in the cabin
that evening by one of the big fires. At the opposite
end of the room sat Flossie and Paul. They bundled
together in a corner.

Mrs. Crittendon looked troubled. It was not
about her daughter, however. Margaret and Farfar
were so shy with each other that she could scarcely
take them seriously. And Margaret had been so
happy lately that she had simply decided not to
say anything to her about the young visitor from
the camp below. Besides, she had grown fond of
Farfar herself for his quaint and thoughtful
manners. She persisted, unconsciously, in still
regarding Margaret as a child. Little Mary
explained it all by saying, “Margaret has a beau!”

But Mrs. Crittendon was troubled about Flossie
and Paul. If there had been any place for them to

314 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

go, she would have sent them out of the house.
She could no longer control either of them.
Paul, she decided, must have been “touched” a
little by his sufferings. There was an air of abandon
about him. She began now to be sorry for Flossie
too, who could no longer be depended upon to
remember anything. She seemed to be moving in a
heavy-lidded trance. Mysteriously, old Mr. Kis-
kadden had ceased to be even a feeble ally. He
no longer prayed openly for anybody. He simply
disregarded, and rubbed his gums with snuff.

It was a terrible habit. Mrs. Crittendon loathed
it. She remembered sitting in the fine old drawing-
room at “Whitesides” — only a few months before.
They had been reading Tennyson. She heard the
sonorous voice of her husband speak as though he
were in the room. The clock struck two.

“Oh, I can’t bear it,” cried Mrs. Crittendon,
suddenly breaking into tears.

Margaret and Farfar hurried over to her.
Margaret put her arms about her. Mrs. Crittendon
dried her tears and tried to laugh. Farfar offered her
some chestnuts he had been roasting. She went over
and sat down between them by the fire. Paul and
Flossie never moved. Presently old Mr. Kiskadden
got up and rubbed his gums with snuff again.

That was the first time Mrs. Crittendon had
broken down. The rest of the time, brave woman,
she was actually merry enough.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 315

The Reverend Mr. Kiskadden no longer cared
how close Paul and his daughter Flossie sat, or
lay, for that matter. Two days before he had joined
them in holy, if not in lawful, wedlock. There had
been no witnesses. Mr. Kiskadden had found them
together in the hayloft and had married them then
and there.

Flossie was greatly disappointed. Paul was
sullen about it. No one had said anything to
Mrs. Crittendon. Flossie felt cheated of a real
wedding. She had hoped that she would have a
new dress for her wedding, or that Mrs. Crittendon
would give her one of Margaret’s. At least, there
should have been a veil. Even in wartime there
had been enough bed-net to go around to make
veils for brides. Anybody who was anything but
a mountain girl had a veil. That was what marriage
meant to Flossie: a new dress, a veil, wagons and
buggies about a little church in the woods some-
where, excitement, and cake afterwards. Marriage
was simply an event unconnected with anything
before or after. Of course, there had to be a man.

So it was disappointing just to be stood up in
the shadows of the old haymow and married by
her father with a Bible in one hand and a whip
in the other. And Paul with his arm in a sling.
The horses kept stamping underneath. She had
needed a veil. She had nothing on but an old corset
and a skirt. And she had had to be quick about

316 ACTION AT AQUILA

that. It was a mistake to take your corset off —
ever.

Paul was sullen because he hadn’t intended to
marry Flossie at all; because he hated being found
that way by the old man. It was very awkward
when your arm was in a sling. You couldn’t act
quickly. And when you were found that way you
had to be married — if you were found. Everybody
said so. He ought to have had sense enough to
draw the ladder up after him. Then old ma n
Kiskadden’s head would not, so unexpectedly,
have come poking up through the floor, the old
sneak! Why were old men so curious? They
ought to know. They did! That was the trouble.
So now he was married.

Both to Paul and to Mr. Kiskadden marriage
meant much the same. It was magic words. After
they were said and you kissed the bride, or the
Bible, everything you did to a girl both before and
afterwards was all right. The trouble came after-
wards and was the fault of the girl. Mr. Kiskadden,
after he had performed the ceremony, paid no more
attention whatever to Flossie and Paul. They were
married. Age in him had whittled his philosophy
down to its stocks. All the fine points had been
forgotten.

Mrs. Crittendon’s brief breakdown, natural and
forgivable as it was, was not without its dire conse-
quences. Paul had intended to tell his aunt that

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 317

evening of his marriage, although he was puzzled
as to why she had, as it seemed to him, acted
strangely in permitting the Kiskaddens to come to
Coiner’s Retreat. Yet he had always admired his
aunt Libby and he was profoundly grateful to her
for her affectionate care of him and his small sister
and brother.

So, despite the fact that he was in a hopeless
emotional whirl of alternate pain and passion, he
had still felt that the honourable thing to do was to
inform Mrs. Crittendon that Flossie was now a
member of the family. He had no idea that his
aunt would have viewed this news, if not with
pleasure, at least with relief. That Mrs. Crittendon’s
ample and merciful view of things would permit
her to take into account a changed order of cir-
cumstances never entered his boyish head. He
regarded his English aunt as a kind of cast-iron
Minerva to be placated if possible, to be defied if
necessary.

To that end he had been composing in his
imagination sundry speeches, and summoning to
mind various scenes in which he, Paul, announced
to his aunt the momentous news of his nuptials
with Flossie. Owing to his irritability — for Flossie
and his arm had scarcely permitted him any rest —
in fact, he was nearly exhausted — the role of defiance
appealed more and more to his fancy. Still, that was
easier to think about than to carry out.

318 action at aquila

So he had stayed all evening in the corner with
Flossie, waiting for Farfar to leave, and for the rest
of them to go to bed before speaking to Mrs.
Crittendon. He had just decided after all to
approach her rather gently, when much to his
astonishment and dismay his aunt had herself
broken down and discovered to him that she, too,
harboured emotions.

The effect on Paul, while he still lay quietly in
the corner looking on, was momentous. He watched
Margaret comforting her mother and Farfar’s shy
solicitude for Mrs. Crittendon with the disdain of
a fevered exhaustion. As he reflected upon his own
sufferings and hardships in contrast with those
which seemed to have overwhelmed his aunt, even
if only for a moment, he found himself overcome
with disgust for existence in general and women in
particular. To this feeling the close and constant,
sleepy warmth of Flossie now contributed not a
little. He couldn’t stand much more of that either!
He was feverish and his arm itched intolerably.

None of those things in the house are necessary,
thought Paul. If they only knew, they could do
without them all. In the army I was happy with-
out them. It was cool in the woods and fields; in
the bivouacs by night. There were fires by moon-
light. Men sang songs there. There was the wonder-
ful and fearful excitement of battle. Love is nothing
but heat — and trouble. I think I should rather die

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 319

than go on with it like in the cabin here. Maybe I
would die. Anyway, out there I’d belong to
myself again. Here I’m being all used up. What for?
I’m finer and stronger than that. Oh, if they only
knew how clear and happy the world is when Paul
is well and strong!

When he began to call himself by his own name
he was always tired and exhausted. His automatic
drama went on and he couldn’t stop it. The room
before him took on the wide, clear, somewhat
remote, and faintly-glassy appearance contributed
by a low fever. It was like looking at a slightly-
magnified reflection in which he might appear
himself like his image in a mirror. Presently he
would so appear ! He lay watching. The fire flicked.
His arm hurt. After a while Farfar departed.

Paul was surprised to find that he felt sorry for
Margaret. She looked so sad for a moment after
Farfar closed the door. Meg was a good girl!
How lovely she was sitting there by her mother,
so cool and calm and white! The clock ticked
irritatingly. It seemed to be getting louder, louder.
My God!

“Go to bed, Mrs. Crittendon,” said Paul sud-
denly and aloud, digging Flossie in the ribs and
speaking viciously.

His aunt and Margaret gaped at him in surprise.

Flossie rose and walked sleepily upstairs. She was
just annoyed and hurt enough not to have heard

320 ACTION AT AQ_UIL A

what Paul had said. It was the dig in the ribs that
had wakened her.

“Paul,” said Mrs. Crittendon, “did you mean
that?”

“Yes,” said Paul. “Are you going to cry about
that too?”

“Oh, Paul!” said Margaret.

The boy sprang up suddenly from the corner
where he had been half-prone and walked swiftly
to the door.

“Good-bye, Aunt Libby, good-bye, Meg. I’m
going back to the army,” he shouted. “Don’t you-all
try to stop me!” He banged the door behind him
and darted frantically down the walk. By the time
the two women recovered from their astonishment
and dragged the heavy door open again Paul was
nowhere to be seen.

Mrs. Crittendon went to the front fence and
looked out across the woods and meadows helplessly.
“Paul!” she cried. “Paul, comeback, please!” She
hoped he might hear her. Margaret, although she
had no idea what direction Paul had taken, ran out
into the meadow through the woods behind the
house. Among the trees she caught glimpses of the
moon and once she thought she saw a glimmer of a
white bandage moving a long way off before her.
She kept crying his name hopelessly. But there was
no reply. After a while she gave it up and started
back. She was breathless and weak from crying.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 321

On the way back she met her mother who had
come through the woods to meet her. “He’s gone,
mother,” she said. “ We’ll never see him again. It
was Flossie!”

“Hush,” said Mrs. Crittendon, “let us never say
that again. It is the war, not Flossie. Margaret,
you and I must see things through alone. We must
be equal to whatever comes.” She stood holding
both the girl’s hands till she breathed more easily.

“Let’s go back to the house now,” said Margaret.
“I’m ready. I’ll be a help to you, mother, I will!”

They walked back to the cabin with their arms
about each other. Mr. Kiskadden had come down-
stairs in his suspenders for another rub of snuff.
This time Mrs. Crittendon said nothing at all.

Except in the hearts of those who dreamed of and
grieved for him, the departure of Paul made little
apparent difference in the now rather smooth
current of life at Coiner’s Retreat. Mrs. Crittendon
was, if anything, a little firmer but none the less
cheerful and gentle about the house. She and
Margaret now felt closer to each other than ever
before. To the young girl her mother’s constant
understanding sympathy, her invariable gracious-
ness to everybody, were a continual inspiration.

Paul’s vanishing had made Margaret doubly
anxious now about Farfar. In a way it had roused
her from her first purely idyllic dreams about him.
Now for the first time she began to understand
Xa

322 ACTION AT AQUILA

what the absence of Major Crittendon must mean
to her mother. This fear, however, she concealed,
rather than trouble her mother further, and she
said nothing to her about her girlish but happy
dreams for the days to come. They remained, as
they always remained, a golden haze in the distance.

And Flossie? Flossie had had hysterics the
morning she found Paul was gone. Her one piercing
scream when she understood that he had left had
gone straight to Mrs. Crittendon’ s and Margaret’s
hearts. Their assurances that Paul would return
made no impression upon her. She moved sub-
missively and silently about the house, comforting
herself in the affection and sympathy which sur-
rounded her. She was now a “member of the
family,” and she liked that. Indeed, Flossie was a
better girl for Paul’s having left her. Once Mrs.
Crittendon found her looking out the window, |her
hand pressed to her throat as though waiting for
something further to befall. She called Margaret
and the three sat down and had a cup of tea together.

What outside cheer and comfort they had were
brought them continually and unfailingly from the
camp below. For Margaret it was a secret, an
almost ethereal, happiness that accompanied the
presence of young Farfar. For Mrs. Crittendon it
was a deep reassurance, a sense of hope and strength
renewed that seemed to arrive at the cabin as soon,
as Colonel Franklin swung off Black Girl before

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 323

the gate. That the cheer which the colonel brought
them was obviously pondered, sometimes even
elaborately planned, made it no less real for that.

For there was a genuine and natural geniality
about the colonel, a certain delicate restraint
even in the more lavish manifestations of his
generosity and careful solicitude, that was dis-
arming, that was even humorous. Mrs. Crittendon
waited calmly, but expectantly and gratefully,
for those evenings that would bring the reassuring
tones of his voice with pastime and good company
to the now warm and comfortable fireside at
Coiner’s Retreat. It was still rude and primitive,
but thanks to the colonel it was indubitably
comfortable.

No one peeping in through the window of the
cabin at Coiner’s Retreat on some of those nights
about the middle of November 1864 could have
denied it; no one, except for the uniforms of the
visitors, would have been reminded of the war.
Many a poor soul from the Valley whose hearth
fire had grown dim or had been forever darkened
would have been glad to slip in to join so pleasant,
handsome, and kindly a company.

Margaret and Farfar always sat together. No
one had the heart for any reason to deny them that.
And when the shadows were propitious, it seemed
as though sometimes Margaret’s curls did rest
against Farfar’s shoulder. Perhaps it was only the

324 ACTION AT AQ_UIL A

firelight, but there was on these evenings a light in
the boy’s face as though someone had set a lamp
burning behind partly-translucent marble.

Flossie and the children sat on the floor and
played games or roasted potatoes and chestnuts.
Mr. Kiskadden had his clay pipe, which he never
smoked, for it always hung upside down, and a little
whisky in water. His daughter was married. The
past and the future had vanished for him. The snuff
bowl and his cup were full to the brim. To the
amazement of all, he sometimes sang now in a high,
boyish voice that seemed to come from out of the
far distant past a stave or two from Bobby Burns.
They were even afraid that he might start a
hymn.

Dr. Holtzmaier prevented that. The colonel not
infrequently brought him, and the doctor, of all
things, played a guitar. His success with the instru-
ment was a curious one. The stubby hands of the
surgeon clumped over the strings with a surprising
skill, and there was absolutely no connection
whatever between the emotions of Dr. Holtzmaier
and the nerves of his face. He played everything
with the same bland, cheerful expression, while
his mouth sang bass. The children were at first
fascinated, then puzzled — finally uproarious. Dr.
Holtzmaier could never play enough for them.

There was one song in which nearly everybody
joined. Far far sang it first. He had picked it up

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 325

from the Kanawha Zouaves. The doctor soon had
his accompaniment, with variations, perfected.

“Sitting by the roadside on a summer day.
Chatting with my mess-mates, passing time away.
Lying in the shadow underneath the trees,
Goodness how delicious, eating goober peas.
Peas! Peas! Peas! Eating Goober peas!

Goodness how delicious , eating goober peas !

Just before the battle the General hears a row.
He says, ‘The Yanks are coming, I hear their
rifles now,’

He turns around in wonder, and what do you
think he sees?

The Georgia militia, eating goober peas.

Peas ! Peas! Peas ! ...”

In the chorus even Flossie took part, with a tune-
less, flat sing-song that had something a little eerie
in its sheer toneless monotony.

Most startling of all perhaps were the colonel’s
now more than luxuriant brown burnsides, his
bushy eyebrows, and his kindly blue eyes looking
out keenly alive over his rows of buttons that
twinkled golden in the firelight.

He had a long face with a wide, firm mouth and
finely-moulded red lips from which something
memorable always seemed about to come. And
when he did speak, his clear, full voice enhanced

326 ACTION AT AQUILA

the impression. Mrs. Crittendon did not fail to
note that her guests always appeared brightly
furbished and as well turned out as service in the
field would permit. As a soldier’s wife, she under-
stood, and returned the compliment.

Seated in a barrel chair draped with old calico,
and dressed in her best hoop-skirt, upon which the
white roses of i860 appeared in still spotless
festoons, Elizabeth Crittendon presided at her
fireside with a certain gay dignity that was
peculiarly her own. The quiet assurance of her
manner was not merely the result of breeding and
habit. It expressed memorably the core of her
character and conveyed, like her gestures and
voice, a conviction of force and ease. It was this
quality in Mrs. Crittendon which had enabled her
to accept the help that Colonel Franklin had
brought, and never to doubt the spirit in which it
was proffered. Across the firelight and dancing
shadows of the old cabin room they looked at each
other often and candidly, and with such a poignant
sympathy for those gathered about them snatched
from the coils of war that their glances never faltered.

For some time now Mrs. Crittendon had ceased
to try to obtain news of her husband or to com-
municate with him through the colonel. No answer
to her letters had come.

“Is there any answer yet?” she had asked once,
breathlessly.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 327

“None,” was his quiet reply, with no explanation.

She had pondered that. The Northern prisons
and hospitals were endless. Her letters might still
be wandering. She knew army “channels of
communication.” Even in peace-times in the Old
Army it had sometimes taken months to reach
her husband. Now he was a prisoner of war.
Or was he? She dared not permit herself to
doubt too far. Hope was her staff of life. The
shadows behind and under her eyes darkened. But
she said nothing. She could wait. Even if hope
seemed, like Indian summer, to be too dangerously
prolonged. It would end finally. It must. The answer
would come.

And come it did, suddenly, and in letters of fire.

They were all sitting in the cabin room one night
talking quietly. The fire had been permitted to die
down. The colonel and Farfar were the only
visitors from camp. They had stayed for supper that
evening only at Mrs. Crittendon’s urgent entreaty.

Orders had arrived indicating that there would
soon be a general move south. The colonel had
said nothing about his orders, of course. But Mrs.
Grittendon had guessed what was toward, for he
had brought a further supply of necessaries to
Coiner’s Retreat that afternoon and now sat
earnestly discussing with her the ways and means
of passing the winter. Beyond that, neither of them
cared or dared to think.

328 ACTION AT AQUILA

He would have liked to suggest that she go to his
empty house in Pennsylvania. The mountains
would soon be impassable with snow. The weather
showed some signs of breaking at last. But Kennett
Square was a little town with a great talent for
gossip, and Mrs. Crittendon, he knew, would
never leave Virginia while the war went on and her
husband might return. There was “no news” from
bim, she admitted, but she still had hope in her
eyes. He was now in more of a quandary than
ever as to what to do with the packet. He might
send it to her after the regiment left Aquila. If so,
would she then have courage to carry on?
Probably he should have given it to her weeks
ago — and yet?

On a board laid out on the table with pencilled
lines Farfar and Margaret were playing checkers.
Sometimes their hands touched. Flossie was putting
the children to bed upstairs. Mr. Kiskadden nodded
over his whittling.

“Oh, Timmy, go to bed” said the exasperated voice
of Flossie from above, “ I’ve tucked you in twice!”

“I tell you I does hear ’em,” whined Timmy.
They heard his bare feet pad to the head of the
stairs. “Aunt Libby,” he called downstairs in his
childish treble, “I hears sumpin’ and Flossie say
I doesn’t.”

“What is it, my dear?” said Mrs. Crittendon,
smiling.

THE GIANT’S NURSERY 329

“It’s the soldiers shootin’ each other with guns.”

The blood left Mrs. Grittendon’s face. “Go to
bed, Timmy,” said she. The colonel got up and
walked to the door. An intense silence fell on the
room. All stood listening, and looking at him. .

“Would you mind stopping that clock for a
moment, Mrs. Crittendon?” said the colonel. “I
think I do hear something.” Her skirt rustled, and
the loud ticking suddenly ceased.

Then everyone heard it. It was the distant but
unmistakable rattle of musketry.

“Come on, son!” shouted the colonel at Farfar,
and made the gate in a half-dozen strides. He
vaulted into the saddle and Black Girl thundered
off into the night.

Elizabeth Crittendon stood with her arm
stretched out along the mantel where her hand
had reached out to stop the clock. The pendulum
still swung a little in lessening arcs.

He had gone, and without even a word to her.
The war had taken him too. She drew in her breath
at last, shuddering. She looked up, startled. Someone
was still at the door.

It was Margaret and Farfar. Margaret had her
arms around his neck, her head was thrown back
and her eyes closed. She looked like a blind girl
and she held on to him like one drowning. The boy
gave Mrs. Crittendon a look of agony and appeal.

She always remembered his eyes that evening.

330 ACTION AT AQUILA

They seemed to be looking into the distance at
something intolerable.

“I’ll hev to come back now,” he whispered.
“I’ll jes’ hev to!” He forced Margaret’s hands
apart, pressed them back against the door, and
lassed her on the mouth. Then he fled into the
darkness. They heard his horse go tearing down
the little valley.

Margaret kept standing there. Mrs. Crittendon
caught her before she fell. The whole place echoed
and pulsated now. It was like a fast-approaching
thunderstorm. One might expect lightning at any
moment.

In the Valley below, the drums of the regiment
were beating the long roll while the bugles screamed,
“Stand to arms.”

Elizabeth and Margaret Crittendon sat on the
same bench and tried to comfort each other.

CHAPTER XVII

THE ACTION AT AQUILA

You will not find it in the books called
history. There are only two old men alive who still
remember it. In a war of colossally grisly battles,
with staggering losses even in minor engagements,
so small an affair was not worth the chronicling.
Its statistics were simply lumped with a larger
whole, for to the official military mind it was merely
one phase of a long-drawn-out cavalry skirmish that
extended up the South Fork of the Shenandoah from
Luray to the Danville Railroad. It was all over
in a few minutes — all but the grief and the suffering.
Even the survivors, when they met afterwards,
always spoke of it casually as “that action at
Aquila” or “the cavalry brush south of Luray.”
What was that, if you had been at Manassas; at
Antietam and Gettysburg?

“But do you remember?” they would sometimes
say, do you remember —

“when Early’s men who lived in the Valley
tried to come back home? Some of them were what
was left of Jackson’s veterans. They were the back-
bone of that attack. They thought of their ruined
farms. It was hard to stop them from coming home.

332 ACTION AT AQUILA

The rest were just the last sweepings of the draft,
boys or old clerks from the sidewalks of Richmond
and Petersburg. But even they fought well. They
were desperate. Much depended upon them. And
they knew it.”

That is what one used to hear. Actually —

General Early was preparing to move the bulk of
his forces out of the Valley of Virginia. The dying
Confederacy was shrinking its life-blood back to its
heart. The Virginia Central was busy bringing
empties west to take Early’s men back towards Rich-
mond. A raid northward into the Valley to cut, if
possible, that important federal artery, the Manassas
Gap Railroad, would create a diversion; screen the
withdrawal to Richmond. It might even fool Sheri-
dan long enough to put him on the defensive again.
And time was precious then, even more precious
than men.

For his purpose, a purely strategic one, the
Confederate general picked his men carefully.
Many of them were natives of the Valley, old
volunteers, StonewalPs veterans who could be
depended upon to fight their way back home. They
were to leaven the lump of the new, drafted men
and the raw, young recruits. Early was prepared to
sacrifice them if necessary, and there wasn’t much
time to organize.

There was one regiment of Lomax’s cavalry,
commanded by a captain, and remounted on

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 333

newly-captured federal horses. They were mostly
veterans and would carry through. There were
several provisional battalions of infantry sketchily
organized for the occasion; doubtful, but the best
available. There was no artillery, because there
was none to spare. Cannon were almost as scarce as
capable officers. Daring must be the substitute for
both. So the command was placed in the hands of a
fearless, but wild, Mississippian by the name of
LaTouche, Major Mathis LaTouche.

LaTouche specialized in forlorn hopes. “Christ
help the foremost” was his motto, and he always
led his own men. Also he told one funny story in
Cajun dialect of which General Early was very,
very tired. Perhaps he told it once too often?
Anyway, he was given a general’s responsibility
with a major’s rank. “Nothing matters to dead
men,” the general muttered, when he was once
asked about it long afterwards.

LaTouche and his men, about twenty-five hun-
dred in all, got off the cars at a little siding on the
Virginia Central just west of Waynesboro. They
could ride no farther. The iron bridge over the
Shenandoah at Waynesboro had been destroyed
some weeks before by Torbert’s Union cavalry.
The Confederates hurried rapidly down the Valley,
the infantry in bad shoes and bare feet.

They passed through ruined Staunton and Port
Republic, also lately visited by General Torbert.

334 ACTION AT AQUILA

Consequently, they kept gathering in a good many
“independents” and “volunteers” along the
way; lean, bearded men who came out of hiding
from the woods and ravines, rifle in hand and grim
determination at heart. They had nothing to lose
now but their lives.

So far LaTouche had seen nothing of the federal
forces except their benign handiwork. By the tim e
he reached Rockingham on the South Fork his
column numbered over three thousand by “natural
accretion,” and he was greatly encouraged. It
looked as though he might get far enough down the
Valley by midnight to strike at the railroad next
day. That would be magnificent ! Early might have
to make him a colonel yet.

So he kept pushing his one well-organized and
veteran unit, the cavalry regiment, far ahead of his
limping infantry, hoping to occupy Luray after
nightfall. All was going merrily — when his scouts
struck the vedettes of the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry
posted along the river south of Felix Run and in the
gorge above Aquila.

Although it was now pitch dark, the Confederate
cavalry still made a determined attempt to push on.
The skirmish along the river road grew fast and
furious. But the volume of fire from the breech-
loading carbines used by the Federals convinced
the Confederates that the gorge must be quite
heavily occupied, and they fell back up the Valley

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 335

to await the arrival of their infantry still many
miles behind.

It was the last of this skirmish in the gorge that
Colonel Franklin had heard from the porch at
Coiner’s Retreat. In less than no time he was back
in camp and had the situation in hand. Farfar
returned to camp a few minutes after him. The
firing by then had died away. Evidently the
Confederates were not going to risk a night attack
before their main body came up to support them.

Colonel Franklin could have asked for nothing
better than a delay. He took every precaution
against a surprise, but permitted the bulk of his
men to sleep under arms. Meanwhile, he sum-
moned the force at Luray to join him, and sent
couriers to Front Royal with the news of the
threatened raid, to be transmitted to headquarters.

The night passed peacefully. Shortly before
sunrise the 23rd Illinois Infantry and the Rhode
Island Artillery marched in up the Luray road,
quietly, as they had been instructed. By dawn they
were posted. Before that time the colonel felt sure
that his message must have been relayed by the
signal corps at Front Royal to General Sheridan
at Winchester.

The sun rose through a bank of fog. At the lower
end of the Valley a lowering, black cloud, which
extended from one mountain wall to the other,
lingered like a patch of night, moving imperceptibly

336 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

southward. It was the first major threat of a break
in the weather for many weeks. At Aquila, of course,
no one paid any attention to it. It was still miles
away, and few in that vicinity on that particular
morning had their heads in the clouds.

It seemed obvious to everyone that a clash would
take place immediately between the opposing forces
gathering about Aquila; that is, as soon as it should
be light enough for effective fighting to begin. Men
and officers strained, looking into the thinning fog
and shadows before them, and as the visibility
increased the tension grew.

It was found that during the night the Confed-
erates had advanced through the gorge. Their
infantry had worked along both sides of the river
in small parties, filtering through the woods and
over the “impassable” hills. Morning found them
in full possession of all but the lower end of the
little pass.

Colonel Franklin had expected that. He had
slowly withdrawn his cavalry pickets rather than
sacrifice them uselessly. Except for a sharp inter-
change of rifle fire just before daylight, when the
massed Union outposts finally withdrew from the
gorge to fall back on their main body, there had
been no serious resistance.

It was during this brief outbreak of firing that the
infantry and artillery from Luray had arrived on
the field. As the senior officer present. Colonel

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 337

Franklin then found himself in command of a
combined force of about eighteen hundred
splendidly-equipped veterans from the three major
arms of the service, and he made his dispositions
accordingly.

In spite of the efficiency of his little force, he must,
until reinforcements arrived, play a waiting and
defensive game. Both his orders and the situation
made it imperative to do so rather than to waste his
strength in a doubtful offensive. He had Sheridan’s
own instructions to “hold the bottle neck at
Aquila” until help arrived, and to send word of any
movement to the south of him. The latter he had
done, and the former he determined to do if
possible. But he was outnumbered by about two to
one, and reports from his scouts led him to believe
that the Confederates were in even greater numbers.
He might, then, be forced back. Yet, if he were, it
must only be after he had so crippled the Con-
federates that they would fall an easy prey to the
federal reinforcements coming up the Valley — or,
in any event, find themselves too enfeebled to reach
the Manassas Gap Railroad.

Colonel Franklin’s task was therefore “to dam”
the Valley with the force at his disposal against
twice his numbers; that of the Confederates, to
overflow him and smash through. Time would be
the deciding element. The “dam” necessarily
consisted of a defendable line across the narrow part
Ya

338 ACTION AT AQUILA

of the Valley just below where the river broke
through the hills. Roughly, that line stretched along
Aquila Creek from the ruined village itself to the
river. There were dense forests and tumbled foothills
on either flank.

The colonel put Aquila Creek behind him. It was
fordable if he did have to fall back down the Valley,
and it might offer in that case an excellent second
line of defence. He posted the 23rd Illinois Infantry
on the left. The extreme left battalion of that regi-
ment occupied the thin woods and some of the
heavy-walled buildings in the ruined village of
Aquila. The artillery, a crack battery of six rifled,
steel field-pieces, he posted in the centre, supported
by sharp-shooters composed of some of his cavalry-
men and the Illinois Irish, twenty- two in all. He held
the right of the line with his own regiment, his right
flank resting on the river, where Dr. Holtzmaier
also set up his field hospital in Mr. Felix Mann’s
canteen. The empty camp lay a quarter of a
mile behind him in charge of a few invalids
and musicians. There were no reserves. It was
the best he could do. The line was too long,
but it was concave to the enemy and con-
centrated fire.

The line was crescent-shaped because it followed
roughly the rim of a shallow bowl of meadows
several square miles in extent. The hay on them
had been cut some weeks before, so there were now

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 339

perfectly-clear manoeuvring for cavalry and unim-
peded shooting for artillery and riflemen. The
Confederates would have to advance over those
clean, cropped fields for nearly a mile before they
struck the Union troops. At the present they were
debouching from the gorge and taking up position
in a tangle of unbroken forest just opposite, woods
that stretched from the Blue Ridge to the river.

Success in action frequently depends upon
apparently quite minor features in the terrain. Such
was the case at Aquila. Both sides were quick to
take advantage of them. If the Confederates lay
fully concealed in the woods along the south side of
the meadows and in the river gorge itself, the
Federals were equally well-protected by the little
valley of Aquila Creek. It made a gradual, a
scarcely noticeable, swale in the fields where it
flowed down to the river. That wide-sweeping,
grassy dip, nevertheless, was deep enough to conceal
a mounted man so that his head would not show
above the sky line.

It was within this hollow in the fields that Colonel
Franklin placed the artillery and his own regiment
of cavalry, massed and ready. Over the crest
towards the enemy there was nothing but a thin
line of skirmishers lying down in the short grass
with their rifles and carbines beside them. That
was all that Major LaTouche could see there when
he examined the Union line with field-glasses.

340 ACTION AT AQUILA

shortly after sunrise, while wisps of fog were still
curling through the pines.

It was plain to the major that the Union left
was strongly held by a regiment of Zouave infantry.
He could see their red trousers and white leggings
gleaming through the open woods in that direction
and in the ruins of the village, which would, with
its sturdy brick buildings, be a hard nut to crack. In
the fields nearer the river, however, there seemed to
be nothing but a thin line of dismounted cavalry.
Hence, the major decided to attack there at once.

He generally felt impetuous just after breakfast
and the five cups of eye-opening, black New Orleans
coffee which his darky orderly brewed him every
morning. The cherished coffee and nine Mexican
silver dollars were all that remained of the major’s
estate. But even that was too much. Seeing only as
clearly as he did, despite the coffee, he had no idea
that in a slant of the fields, that looked level through
the field-glasses, a battery of artillery and a regiment
of cavalry lay concealed. There was, in fact, no
immediate way of his finding this out, unless he had
ordered one of his men to climb a tree and look
over. It did occur to him to give such an order,
but he felt that it would be thought eccentric, and
he refrained.

What is described by clerkly historians as an
“inexplicable delay” now took place. That is,
killing on a large scale did not begin as soon as

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 341

might logically be expected. The whole morning
passed with only desultory firing by sharpshooters
on both sides. It was nearly noon before the
impetuous, and by now impatient, Major LaTouche
was able to deliver his first thrust. His infantry
illogically insisted upon having something to eat
before they started to die. Most of them had been
marching all night. They had few shoes and many
sore feet. They sat down and made flapjacks and
cooled their feet in the river. They picked their way
slowly along the rocky gorge road, and it took
several hours to get them deployed through the
woods facing the Federals and reorganized for
attack. The “volunteers” picked up along the route
were particularly troublesome. They insisted upon
sticking together in neighbourhood gangs.

Among them was a party of Valley men, veterans
of many a fight, who had joined up at Waynesboro.
And in that group was a peaked-looking youngster
with his left arm in a sling.

Paul Crittendon had got no farther than Waynes-
boro when he ran away from Coiner’s Retreat.
There he had been ill again. His chance to get back
to the army had seemed heaven-sent when La-
Touche’s column came through. Since he could not
use a rifle, he had been given a six-shooter and
assigned to a colour guard. He said he didn’t care
whether he was killed or not, and he thought he
meant it. Flags were always carried into battle.

342 ACTION AT A Q_UIL A

although they were unnecessary. Paul’s flag had
been at Gettysburg, and all up and down the Valley
with Early. It was shot full of holes and tattered by
the weather until it looked like old lace. It had the
fatal property of acting like a “magnet” for lead.

Colonel Franklin did not let his artillery shell the
woods where he knew the Confederates were
assembling. He was saving the guns as a surprise.
Nor would he permit the lieutenant-colonel com-
manding the 23rd Illinois to attack and “clean out”
the country in front of him, although the wild Irish
were eager to advance and kept up a constant
peppering fire. “Wait,” said the colonel, “wait
and save your ammunition.”

So they waited, all through the morning. The
colonel finally fed his men and horses. On the left,
the little springhouse at Aquila was full of Zouave
Irishmen from Chicago filling their canteens to a
constant clinking of cans. All the dolls, even the
Corncob tribe, were taken for “sowveneers.” The
men lay low and ate their rations. It looked like a
big picnic through the woods while they munched
their hard-tack and cold beans. Smoke rose from
the chimney of one of the deserted houses where
the staff" made coffee. On the right the cavalry and
artillery broke out nose-bags for the horses, ready
to snatch them away. Details carried buckets of
water, slung on poles, across the fields. A few
skulkers sneaked back to camp.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 343

At the end of the line near the river Surgeon
Holtzmaier laid out his instruments and cleared
the counters of Mr. Mann’s canteen for operating
tables. The stone farmhouse, where the store had
been situated, offered a welcome protection from
stray bullets, and extra hospital space. A dozen or
so wounded from the skirmish of the night before
had been treated there. Already four dead men were
laid out on the river-bank behind. The tents of the
deserted camp lay farther down the stream, still
and gleaming, with the forgotten headquarters
flag flopping idly on its staff as the wind gradually
shifted from south to north.

A chill crept into the air. The cloud down the
Valley began to draw perceptibly nearer. It slowly
threatened to shut half the world from sunlight like
a vast, sliding lid.

But on the bright pastures where men waited for
battle Indian summer still lingered, gilding the
meadows with a wide, empty yellow light. The
slanting sunlight twinkled on weapons scattered
through the woods and fields; glittered on the
polished steel barrels of the six rifled cannons of the
“Star Battery” from Providence, Rhode Island.

Lieutenant Lyman de Wolf Dorr, the dandy,
young officer in charge, beat the dust out of his
gauntlets against his saddle-bow, and wished to
God the fun would begin and be got over with.
He was twenty-three and this was his thirteenth

344 ACTION AT AQUILA

battle. He listened with professional appraisal to
the distant “howling” in the woods held by the
Confederates. It seemed to him the enemy was
trying to keep up his own courage rather than
express defiance. Certainly those yells were nothing
like the rebel yells of earlier in the war; not to be
compared with the noise when they were closing in
on McClellan on the Peninsula. He wondered
idly how soon the war would be over. The annual
subscription dances must be beginning at home
now. To have missed three seasons! He whistled
his favourite waltz of 1861, listening to invisible
fiddles. A bullet droned over the crest and smacked
into an apple tree on the knoll near by. A branch
with a withered fruit bent and fell. There was no
reply. The Union lines lay silent. Waiting, waiting.
My God, that was what wore you out — waiting!

A courier with an exhausted and sobbing horse
came stumbling up from the river road and asked
for Colonel Franklin. The lieutenant pointed him
out sitting on the little knoll on the crest among the
bare apple trees, where he had been observing since
ten o’clock. He watched the courier hand the
colonel his dispatch. At that moment the entire
Union picket line on the other side of the crest
burst into a fury of fire.

The lieutenant never forgot the next few seconds.
He kept his eyes on the colonel. He thought the
man would never get through reading that dispatch:

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 345

Hold hard. Merritt’s and Averell’s cavalry-

divisions left Winchester at 4 a.m.

S.

That was all.

The colonel tucked the paper in his pocket,
turned, looked over the field, and made a signal to
Lieutenant Dorr.

Instantly, men, horses, and guns leaped forward,
animated by a single will. The battery raced for the
crest, opening fanwise, each gun heading for its
appointed place already prepared hours before. The
static tension was resolved into violent action.

To the fine of Confederates some eight hundred
strong, advancing across the fields through a hail
of droning bullets from the Union riflemen, the
heads of the artillery, men and horses, the outlines
of the flying caissons and cannons appeared abruptly
above the low sky line ahead, like a sinister appari-
tion materializing out of the solid green earth of the
meadows themselves.

The guns unlimbered. The horses trotted back
over the crest.

There was a moment of frantic activity about the
battery, and then a great wall of pallid, yellow
smoke seemed to be pushed out against and to be
rushing down upon the oncoming Southerners.
The wall cracked and bellowed with thunder.
Streaks of red light leaped out of its heart, followed
by the howlings and hummings of the invisible

346 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

things that fell upon that line of advancing men like
bundles of whirling knives; that cut them, sliced
them, filled them full of fine steel needles which
pierced to the bone.

The line continued to advance. The distant
yelling of men came nearer, heard faintly above the
bellows of the volcano on the knoll. Somehow there
were not so many in the line now. The yelling grew
fainter. Then suddenly — no one could tell just
exactly when — the advancing line was going the
other way, turned back as if by command.

But it was no longer a line. It was lonely indivi-
duals converging upon one another, rushing into
bunches and groups. They went tearing back into
the woods they had left only a few minutes before,
to lie down white, exhausted, and panting. To each
man it seemed as though the guns should have
ceased when he turned back. The terrible thing
was that those cannons had continued to kill every
foot of the way, coming and going.

Finally they ceased.

And now from the fields, dotted with motionless
and squirming bundles, came a low wailing, and a
high, tearing screaming that did not cease in that
vicinity until early the following morning. Lieuten-
ant Dorr had been firing alternate but continuous
salvos of shrapnel and canister. The wind drifted
the acrid powder smoke sinuously through the
woods where the Confederates now lay silent.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 347

Silence hung over the Union lines. The battery
was cooling its guns.

Someone out on the field kept calling for
“William Anderson” in a hoarse, agonized voice
and ceased not to do so. Curiously enough, several
others finally took up the refrain. Then, as if in
answer, the guns began again.

One of them tolled like a bell, the others barked
and bellowed. Each had a different voice. It was
like a monster with six heads roaring. They were
plunging round shot into the Confederate woods.
These whined and smashed through the trees,
scattering branches and splinters as though lightning
had struck. On the knoll the battery was once more
enveloped in a dense cloud of yellow smoke. The
explosions gradually grew more deliberate. After-
while they stopped. The battery seemed to have run
down like a clock. Doubtless they were winding it
up again. In the woods men lifted pale, strained
faces from their arms and stood upright once more.

Major LaTouche determined to have those guns.
They were stopping him. It had been a mistake —
he could see it now — to attack with only part of his
infantry. He should have used every available man
and broken through. Now he would hurl his
regiment of cavalry on the battery and follow up
with all his infantry. Horsemen could get across the
field to the guns before they were all killed getting
there. That was the gist of it. He still regarded his

348 ACTION AT AQUILA

men as invincible, once they arrived. Also, he was a
cavalryman. Having made a terrible mistake, he
determined to wipe out either his error or himself
by leading the cavalry in person. He tugged his
long moustache thoughtfully. That damn’ Yankee
battery was the best he had ever seen. “Well, suh,
let’s go over an’ call on ’em,” said he, as he put
himself at the head of his cavalry massed in an
open glade. He issued orders for the infantry to
follow “instantly.”

LaTouche may have been mad or just from
Mississippi, either or both. Anyway, he rode a large
cream-coloured stallion that actually tossed his
mane. He also carried a fine repeater hunting watch.
He now took this out of his pocket and held it up to
his ear. All those sitting near him on their horses in
the silent forest heard its faint chime. A slightly
elfin look flitted over the major’s face. “It is exactly
two and a half o’clock,” said he, and looked about
him. No one disputed the fact. It was his last
irrational action save one. He next gave the com-
mand to take the guns.

The guns were not very cool yet. “The trouble
with these damned steel babies,” said Lieutenant
Dorr, “is that they heat up like hell over a brief
affair. Look at number one there, her breeches are
still hot as a hoar’s ! ” He spat on the metal, and the
saliva cracked back at him.

“ Give the slut a chance, sir ! ” exclaimed a young

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 349

gunner who was proud of number one. “ I'll cool
her off” — and before anyone could stop him he
dumped a bucket of cold spring water over the
breech. A torrent of oaths and a hail of kicks on his
behind rewarded him. Someone started to laugh,
when from an opening in the woods opposite a
regiment of Confederate cavalry led by a man on a
cream-coloured horse emerged at a rapid trot.
It was a full half-mile away. The battery went into
action immediately.

“Shrapnel!” roared the lieutenant, and started
to move over to number two gun, which was slow
in fire.

Just then number one burst with a crack like a
tight earthquake, and the caisson behind it went
up with red fire and a volcanic roar. Men, horses,
wheels, and metal fragments were spewed all over
the meadows, and the blast carried havoc through
the rest of the battery. The man who had poured
cold water over the breech was blown spread-
eagled up into an apple tree to hang there with his
bowels streaming out while he made noises like a
sick rooster.

Lieutenant Dorr could not hear him, though,
nor the rebel trumpets sounding the charge. He
never heard anything again. He stood dazed,
watching the battery trying to reassemble itself.
There were only enough men left to man four guns.
For a while they were clear out of action.

350 ACTION AT AQUILA

For several minutes the lieutenant was out too.
All he could do was to lean against a shattered tree
and watch things unroll before him in a stunned
dream. Time seemed to have slowed up as if only
the intervals of a dismal music were being played
long drawn out. Yet he could see; he still knew what
was going on.

Across the half-mile of meadow before him, one
to the left and one to the right, two columns of
cavalry, moving on parallel lines but in opposite
directions, rode flashing into the afternoon sunlight.
There was not quite a mile of perfectly smooth
meadow between them. The Confederates were
making for the guns. The Federals seemed to be
heading for the line of woods opposite. The lieuten-
ant saw this. It seemed to him to be happening
slowly. He saw the man on the cream-coloured
horse throw up his hands and slowly fall off back-
ward. He saw the column of Union cavalry swing
into line and start to sweep down the field, slowly.
The Confederates had turned to meet them. The
two lines would meet directly in front of the guns.
The lieutenant could not move. Something was
wrong with him. He knew he ought to move.
He had forgotten how. The trouble was in his
head. He groaned. Nightmare had become a
reality.

Colonel Franklin on Black Girl had halted exactly
half-way across the fields with his trumpeter beside

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 35 1

him. A crackle of rifle fire came from the woods
towards which his column was heading. The bullets
tore up the turf about him. Black Girl danced as
though she were in a swarm of bees. Half the
column galloped past the colonel. The trumpet
sounded. The troopers swung left into line,
stretching well across the meadows, and halted.
Here and there a man dropped from the saddle and
a horse galloped away. But most of the empty
saddles stayed in line.

History does not remember the name of the young
officer who commanded the regiment of Con-
federate cavalry at Aquila after LaTouche fell —
only that he was a captain from New Bern, North
Carolina. Nevertheless, he was probably the best
soldier on the field. The instant Major LaTouche
was killed, he stopped the charge on the battery
and brought his men into line to face the 6th
Pennsylvania Cavalry that seemed to have sprung
from the earth. And he never stopped galloping.
He simply swung his squadrons like so many doors
on hinges and swept on up the field.

It was now that Colonel Franklin made the
mistake of his life. He had behind him a splendid
machine for firing carbines. He used it as a sword.
He might have kept his men sitting their horses in
line, while they crashed volley after volley into the
long front of the Confederate cavalry sweeping
down upon him. He might have emptied half their

352 ACTION AT AQUILA

saddles before they struck him. That would have
been the calm, approved tactics of it.

But Colonel Franklin also was a cavalryman. He
had been born in 1 82 1 and brought up on Napoleon,
Sir Walter Scott, and Balaclava. The clear field
before him, the line of horsemen speeding towards
him over the grass, his own regiment lined up spick,
span, and ready behind him — that was the moment
and the situation he had been dreaming of, living
and drilling for, for years.

He gave the order to charge.

All fire from either side had ceased. It was as
though that bowl of meadows full of sunlight was
nothing more than a prepared field for the greatest
of human spectacles. Infantrymen stood up in the
woods and craned their necks. On the knoll the
artillerymen waited. The lines of cavalry would
meet directly in front of the battery. To fire would
be to slaughter friend and foe alike. Lieutenant
Dorr threw his arms behind him to grasp the
tree. His vision was clearing now, dizzily. He heard
nothing.

But a rolling storm of hoofs that sounded like
subterranean thunder came faster and nearer from
either side. Like the crest of two floods the lines of
horses with manes curling backward in the wind
swept forward. Men leaned low in the saddles with
their sabres flashing before them. The sound of the
desperate breathing of a thousand beasts, snorting,

THE ACTION AT AQ,UILA 353

and the creaking of leather approached like a
whirlwind. Fifty yards from each other a long
blast of withering fire swept from one end to the
other of either line. Powder smoke floated away
like spume drift as though the two waves had
broken — as they had. For to a storm of hoarse
cheering and a screaming rebel yell the lines met
directly before the lieutenant standing on the knoll.

Men threw up their hands and fell backward*
men pitched forward. Horses reared and plunged.
Frantic beasts, kicking and screaming, rolled over
and over. Lieutenant Dorr could look down upon
and clear across a quarter of a mile of furious
slaughter. It was fortunate that he could not hear.
Swords are really great knives. Men were chopping
one another out of the saddle like so much meat on
the block. The haze of pistol smoke grew denser.
The sun dazzled on tossing crests of steel. Here and
there groups broke through and wheeled back
again into the melee. Horses shot through the lungs,
with purple foam spurting from their nostrils,
plunged, bucked, and rolled, bashing the brains
and bowels out of their masters, trampling them
flat. Dismounted men hewed and shot at each
other. For something over two hundred seconds this
went on.

Yet in the silent, dazed world of Lieutenant Dorr,
where impressions still registered themselves slowly,
the events before him seemed to be prolonged and

Za

354 ACTION AT AQUILA

delayed. A sabre fell deliberately upon the blue
sleeve of a Union trooper who had thrown his
carbine up to ward off the blow. A flash of crimson
spray followed the severed arm and the carbine as
they curved free through the air. Two officers rode
around each other shooting. A hole appeared in the
forehead of one and he closed his eyes, falling. A
couple of horses reared straight upward, their
riders slashing. One horse fell upon his rider back-
ward, the other sank slowly upon his haunches,
trembling, his backbone cut behind the saddle.
A cascade of yellow water spurted from his tail. A
swirl of maddened blue-coats led by their colonel
passed over the beast’s body, sweeping everything
before them. The lieutenant closed his eyes. When
he opened them again the fight had passed on. He
was looking at what was left behind.

Immediately before him, the horse with the
severed spine was struggling to rise on its forelegs.
It seemed to be trying to crawl someplace where
men could never come. Its head reared up strangely
with staring eyes and open jaws. There was some-
thing lizardlike about it. Its long, smooth neck and
body swept serpentwise back into its dead haunches.
It looked like one of the horses of Pluto, emerging
from the ground. The lieutenant turned away
sickened, pressing his hands to his head that now
throbbed in a returning tide of feeling with a
ruinous, internal agony. The man on number two

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 355

gun was just about to pull the lanyard. The lieuten-
ant fell on him with cries out of nowhere only in
time to prevent his firing into his own men. In an
utterly silent world the young officer stood trying to
hear himself groan, left entirely alone with his pain.

The furious confusion of the cavalry action
swirled on up the field to the left. The Confederates
had been forced back. From the woods their
infantry, which had at last received its orders to
advance, swept out to support them.

From the little knoll on the crest, where Lieuten-
ant Dorr was standing by with what remained of his
guns, the field presented a scene of disastrous
confusion. The Confederate cavalry had finally
broken and had been forced back, with the Federals
pressing them hard, almost to the border of the
woods. There they met the solid lines of their own
infantry emerging from the underbrush and rushing
impetuously forward. While some of the Con-
federate cavalry was received through intervals
and thus found shelter behind the line of their
advancing infantry, most of the mounted men,
both Confederates and Federals, were now rolled
back again towards the Union position, a seething
swirling mass of men and animals locked in confused
conflict.

As seen from the Union lines, the whole advan-
cing, bayonet-flashing front of the Confederate
infantry was now masked and curtained by this

356 ACTION AT AQUILA

cavalry m£lee of inextricably-mixed friend and foe;
by patches of squadrons that still held some sem-
blance of formation; by riderless horses galloping
aimlessly up and down; by distracted men still
fighting or attempting to flee — and behind them a
hedge of bayonets that advanced relentlessly.

The Union lines perforce remained silent. The
advance had not yet come within effective range
of the 23rd Illinois rifles on the left, and Lieutenant
Dorr was now faced with the dilemma either of
permitting his guns to remain idle, until his battery
was overwhelmed by the approaching flood, or of
firing upon the ranks of the enemy through the
living bodies of his friends of the 6th Pennsylvania
still scattered all along the Confederate front.
There was no alternative. He must either fire —
or not fire, and be captured.

The pain in his head was, he thought, driving
him mad. A white-hot bar of metal seemed to be
extending through the back of his skull from ear
to ear. Someone else, he felt, finally forced the word
“canister” through his lips and kept giving orders
like an automaton. The four guns burst into a
frenzy of continuous drumfire. The lieutenant
could not hear them, their sound for him was
transmuted into vibrations of pure pain. The
brain of the young officer seemed to be catching
afire internally, and he rolled on the grass holding
his head and moaning.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 357

The small affair at Aquila had now reached its
crisis. But it was a senseless crisis. There was no
general leadership left on either side. The main
attack of the Confederates had been launched, in
obedience to the command of a dead man, and
was sweeping across the fields towards the Union
line. The unfortunate cavalry being brushed before
it was merely so much living chaff caught between
two millstones about to engage each other. That
was the situation when Lieutenant Dorr’s guns
began to vomit canister.

Gaps, aisles, and vacant intervals began to
appear in that portion of the onrolling mass
immediately facing the battery. A process as of
the rapid melting of a solid appeared to be taking
place. Some of the survivors of the Union cavalry
rode in through the smoke, and throwing themselves
on the ground, opened fire on the approaching
enemy. The gunners serving the four pieces attained
their physical maximum of speed. There was a
moment when the knoll upon which the battery
stood was involved in a continuum of explosion.

The Confederates facing the guns wavered,
rallied, came on again — and then suddenly darted
back. A small portion of them who came racing
up onto the knoll were literally clubbed to death
by the now frantic remnant of the Union cavalry
that had gathered about the guns. There was
something peculiarly terrible about this last fight

358 ACTION AT AQUILA

about the still flashing and tolling cannons. There
was no quarter. The sounds were ferocious. Sud-
denly the cannons stopped and the gunners were
heard roaring hoarsely for ammunition.

When the smoke cleared, it was seen that the
attack on the Union right had been halted. The
field was piled with dead and wounded. Stragglers
were melting away into the woods. Lieutenant
Dorr was shrieking for someone to put a bullet
through his head.

But it was not over yet.

A half-mile up the field to the left the 23rd
Illinois Infantry was advancing out into the
meadows and extending its intervals to cover the
front of the oncoming Confederates. The Union
regiment, trained to machine-like precision by
Zouave tactics, moved as though on parade. It
was “guide centre” on the colours, with the drums
beating and the fifes squealing:

“The Union forever, hurrah, boys, hurrah.”

The shrill, distant defiance of the fifes sounded
pitiful, the drums ominous. The effect upon the
Confederates was electric. They gave a long,
defiant rebel yell, emptied their rifles at the blocks
of blue-coats before them, and rushed forward
with the bayonet.

The files of the 23rd Illinois closed up where
men had fallen. The regiment halted. At a distance

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 359

of two hundred yards it began to fire volleys by
alternate platoons. Behind the ranks the lieutenants
and sergeants counted. The rifles were reloaded in
six counts. The effect was precise, mechanical, and
inhuman. For nearly two minutes an unbroken
series of volleys continued to flash along the front
of the regiment from right to left. Billows of powder
smoke rolled before the line, through which crashed
sheets of flame. The Confederate centre, upon
which this fire was concentrated, parted, seemed
to dissolve in the smoky air. The slaughter at that
point was the worst on the field. But the attack
flowed around the flanks of the blue-coats. Groups
of desperate bearded men with haggard faces
began to throw themselves on the lines of the clock-
work regiment from the rear. The volleys ceased.
A fusillade petered out into pistol-shots. Then
men rolled about with each other on the ground.
The Chicago Irish clubbed muskets against the
Bayonets. This was the kind of riot they best
understood. The field dissolved into a swirling
mass of inextricable confusion.

Scattered over it, and under the feet of
those who still fought there, v/ere the dead,
the dying, and the wounded.

ii

Evening approached, and with it the great cloud
drifting up the Valley.

360 ACTION AT AQUILA

In the old brick farmhouse by the river, Surgeon
Holtzmaier and his two hospital assistants were
now completely and conclusively overwhelmed.
Up until two o’clock that afternoon they had done
heroically well. The casualties from the skirmishing
of the night before and of earlier in the day had
been rapidly disposed of. They had been subjected
to rifle fire only, and their care was comparatively
simple. As soon as the bullets were extracted and
the wounds dressed, Dr. Holtzmaier had had them
carried to the vacant camp where they now lay
in the big mess tents, cared for by some of their
least injured comrades.

Dr. Holtzmaier could see no difference between
a Confederate and a Union wound. A wounded
man was to him an example of suffering humanity.
He took men as they came, in turn. So in the big
tents in the camp the wounded of both sides lay
together and tended one another as best they
could. They, however, were the fortunate ones.
They had been hit early. After the action was
joined, Surgeon Holtzmaier could no more cope
with the influx of wounded than a man could put
out a forest fire with a tumbler of water.

By five o’clock in the afternoon the little farm-
house was surrounded for hundreds of feet by the
wounded. They lay on the grass, gasping, pale and
silent or shivering and moaning, according to the
nature of their endurance or misery. The farm-

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 361

house itself, where the operating and dressing were
going on, sounded like the headquarters of the
Inquisition. The men were laid out on the blanket-
covered counters of Mr. Mann’s now defunct
canteen and the surgeon performed on them.
There were four counters, and the blankets on all
of them were red and sopping.

They brought cases in four at a time, so the
counters were always full. Surgeon Holtzmaier
moved from number one to number four, and then
back to number one again. He was dealing with
every possible form of injury in all parts of the
human frame. Men trampled by horses, with
crushed faces and broken bones ; men with smashed
and mangled limbs; men with frightful head
wounds from shrapnel; men riddled by canister
and drilled with rifle bullets; men with the oozing
weals and raw meat of sabre slashes; poor lost
bodies shot through the stomach, lungs, and bowels,
men and boys.

These had dragged themselves, crawled, or
staggered, or had been brought by comrades to
the little dressing station by the river, the one place
in all that area of destruction where some element
of mercy and intelligent reconstruction still
remained. Surgeon Holtzmaier was simply doing
all that he could. After a while he would send out
the stretcher-bearers for the worst cases that always
remained helpless on the field.

362 ACTION AT AQUILA

Already he had more than he could do. He moved
rapidly, his instruments in a bucket, from number
one to number four. His hospital apprentices
tried to chloroform the men ahead of him. Some-
times they just held them down, if it didn’t take.
The surgeon amputated, cut, sawed, sewed, probed,
and bandaged. To men shot through the entrails
he gave an opiate — and had them carried out
behind the house on the river-bank. There was
nothing more he could do for them.

Mr. Felix Mann had remained to help. He didn’t
want to leave the goods on the shelves of his canteen.
Later on, the doctor used two hundred beautiful
white shirts for bandages, and Mr. Mann said
nothing. He organized a dozen men as stretcher-
carriers. They were probably skulkers. Surgeon
Holtzmaier didn’t give “a goot gottam.”

As the doctor started on his sixteenth round of
the line of counters he was joined by a slight,
middle-aged man in Vandyke beard and worn
Confederate coat with faded medical insignia.

“Dr. Huger Wilson of Charleston,” said the
newcomer quietly. There was a certain dry, crisp
quality to his voice. “May I be of assistance?”

“Ja!” said Holtzmaier. “ Vee all need assizztance
here! Vat?”

“I think we do,” replied Dr. Wilson, and went
to work. They divided the tables between them. The
new-comer worked with incredible speed and skill.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 363

“Vilson? Not Vilson of der Garolina Gollege?”
said Dr. Holtzmaier after a while, wiping the sweat
from his eyes. “You write dat pook?”

Dr. Wilson nodded.

“All I know iss from dat pook,” said Dr. Holtz-
maier humbly.

“But you do well, sir,” replied Dr. Wilson.

It was the great moment of Dr. Holtzmaier’s
life.

Dr. Wilson removed a patella hanging by shreds
from a young lad, who shrieked and went grey
under the knife. He squeezed a spongeful of lauda-
num between his lips.

“Knees seldom heal,” said Wilson as they
removed the man, who had fainted. “Take off
his leg later.”

“Ja, und der gloroform is gone und der lint
und pandages will soon be all. Und dem damn
vools iss schtill gillin’ each odder out dere!”

Both the surgeons stopped for a moment to
listen. The artillery was silent, but a constant
popping of rifle fire was going on. The action by
this time had degenerated into nothing but a
series of scattered skirmishes, each side having
retired to its own woods. Occasionally an obstinate
group of Confederates, Valley men, would make
another rush. They were determined “to drive the
strangehs back.” Such efforts were received by a
violent burst of fire, and foiled.

364 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

“Der damn vools ! ” repeated Dr. Holtzmaier,
as the crash of a volley came to him from far up the
field — and went back to his work. A frightfully
wounded young Confederate expired under his
knife.

“Take him away,” said Dr. Holtzmaier, tears
of chagrin in his eyes.

Dr. Wilson shook his head, as he probed. His
man shrieked.

“Ja,” said Dr. Holtzmaier. “It is der gottam
boliticians do dat! Ven dese fellers vas schust
babies already dey mak sbeeches in der Senate.
Und now, py Gott, der gloroform is all!”

“Sbeeches,” said Dr. Holtzmaier, “sbeeches!” —
from time to time that afternoon.

The two surgeons bent themselves to the desperate
work that is necessary when oratory fails. Presently
the surgeon of the 23rd Illinois and his hospital
assistants joined them. The stretcher cases began
to come in.

“Have you any sperm oil?” asked Dr. Wilson.

“In der lamps.”

“Take some of it and get it boiling.”

Dr. Holtzmaier bellowed to Felix Mann to start
oil boiling.

“Gauterize, eh?”

“Yes,” said Dr. Wilson. “It’s too bad they have
given it up. I observe that there is less gangrene
when you cauterize. No pus, generally. Pus is

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 365

the foam on the lips of death. It is not a healthy
sign.”

“ Ve gauterize!” said Dr. Holtzmaier. “Und
irons, alzo.”

He hustled Mann with his preparations for
boiling the oil in a big pot, and thrust the poker
into the flames. Smoke began to pour out of the old
farmhouse where the doctors worked. Presently
the shrieks of those whose stumps were thrust into
the boiling oil came out of the chimney too.
Dr. Wilson used the hot poker unsparingly to
sear wounds. He knew it saved lives. Dr. Holtzmaier
could hardly stand it. The smell of roasted flesh
sickened him.

“Go out and get a breath of air,” said Dr.
Wilson afterwhile. “You’ve been at it longer than
we have. It will do you good, man. Do it so you
can keep on.” He pushed Dr. Holtzmaier affection-
ately to the door.

“Ja, I go and schump in der ribber und come
pack.”

He stood just outside the door, covered with
gore from the knees up. A scalpel dropped out of
his hand. He filled his lungs with clean air and
wiped the bloody sweat out of his eyes with the
underside of his sleeve. All the wounded near
by began to beg him to do something for them.
Piled under a window, where they had been thrown
out, and extending almost to the height of the sill

366 ACTION AT AQUILA

itself was a pile of mixed legs, arms, and other
things. Near the top a stiff hand stuck out and
pointed at him.

A sickening spasm of disgust, for himself, for
the species he belonged to, and for the scene
in which he found himself dragged downward on
the doctor’s bowels.

“Oh, scheet!” he exclaimed. “Du lieber Gott
im Himmel ! ” — and began to run for the river-
bank.

He tore his clothes off, plunged in, and rolled
about. Presently he emerged again, puffing. The
cold water had sobered him. The horrible reek of
blood was gone. He actually felt clean. So sudden
and so profound was his change of mood that he
literally felt like another man.

Dr. Holtzmaier dressed slowly. He knew he must
take this opportunity of a few minutes from his
work, or he would go under. There would be no
sleep for him tonight. The stretcher cases would
be coming in for hours. They had not even begun
to get to the wounded on the field yet, and it was
only sunset. A lot of the boys would die out there
in the dark. He went up the river-bank a bit and
removed a coat from a dead man who had tried
to crawl down to the water. It fitted him ill, but it
was better than his own blood-soaked blouse.
From where he stood he had a view over the fields
past the camp and clear down the valley almost to

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 367

Luray. The air was chill but bracing. He felt warm
in the dead man’s big coat. He took a drink from
his flask and sat down for a moment. He wanted
to get his hands steady again.

Twilight deepened. There was no firing from the
field now. The lights of the farmhouse windows,
where the surgeons were working, turned from
pale white to yellow. The Valley was strangely
silent except for a distant yelling, a kind of whis-
pered complaint that came through the trees.
It was the voices of the wounded scattered over the
meadows. Suddenly, as if they had been turned on,
the night-birds began. Dr. Holtzmaier shivered a
little as he rose to go back, and as he climbed the
river-bank he looked down the Valley again.

The great cloud was quite near now. Just before
and above it was a patch of bright clean sky from
the last reflected rays of the sun. It was still day
up there. Darkness moved under the cloud coming
southward fast. Its frontlet stretched clear across
the Valley like the forehead of night. And before
the advancing cloud wall, flashing up in great
swooping gyres and circles into the light above,
was a flock of buzzards and swifter-darting hawks,
torn between their fear of the oncoming storm and
darkness and the temptations of the table spread
by man below.

So sinister, brooding, and threatening was the
slow advance of the great storm cloud with the

368 ACTION AT AQUILA

harpies before it that something melancholily
German and primevally fearful was appealed to
in the recesses of the doctor’s simple soul.

Far down the Valley patches of white appeared
here and there, touched by the last long rays of the
sunset, and from where the cloud billowed lowest
descended streaks of shining sleet and rain.

“Vinter, she comes at last!” he exclaimed,
stifling an obscure suicidal impulse compounded
of fatigue, disgust and the solemnly-terrifying
landscape. “Maype we get rest now? Ha, dis is
not so goot for der poys on der field ! ” He hastened
back to get the stretcher-bearers busy and organized.

But he had to wait. The powers of nature were
not the only things loose that evening. The United
States Government was also manifesting its
sovereignty in physical and visible form.

From the ford down the river road came the
sharp note of the bugle. The black water turned to
cream there under the feet of a squadron. Behind
it as far as the eye could see were black masses of
men stretching miles back towards Luray and
moving swifdy up the river road, pouring them-
selves out unceasingly from under the winter and
the darkness of the cloud. Averell’s and Merritt’s
cavalry divisions were on the way south. The cloud
and the buzzards followed them.

The doctor should have crossed the road immedi-
ately. As it was, he was just too late.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 369

The roar and clatter of hoofs was upon him
just as he got his legs over a worm fence at the
roadside. He sat there watching. Squadron after
squadron, regiment after regiment, and brigade
by brigade, the dark masses of men moving at a
fast trot streamed by him. There was never an
interval to get through. As the darkness grew the
squadrons seemed to become solid masses of
darker darkness. Now and then a flag with its
white stripes and stars glimmered by. Irons and
sabres jingled. Sparks sprang from the iron shoes
and cobbles. Before him there was a sharp outburst
of firing, the sound of the thunder of galloping
masses. The fight died away, raving down the pass.
What was left of LaTouche’s men streamed back
southward or scattered madly into the forests at
the foot of the hills. The action at Aquila was over.
It was merely an incident of the cavalry movement
that day. It was hardly well known enough even
to be forgotten — it was scarcely remembered at all.

Dr. Holtzmaier sat for nearly an hour. Then he
slipped through an interval. Averell’s division had
passed. Thundering down the road behind it,
Merritt’s was close behind.

The rifle fire died away in the distance up the
Valley. Cautiously, one by one, as they became
used to the stony roar of the passing of armies, the
night-birds, which had been scared by the firing,
resumed again. By eleven o’clock nothing was to
AAa

370 ACTION AT AQUIL A

be heard about Aquila but the desperate shouts
and screams of the wounded lost in the woods
and fields. Answering them out of the insane
darkness came the long, babbled monosyllables of
owls and the inane insistence of whippoorwill,
whippoorwill. The stretcher-bearers worked frantic-
ally. The lights in the farmhouse glowed and the
fire smoked under the boiling oil.

Meanwhile, hours before, Dr. Holtzmaier had
returned to join his colleagues in their grim and
apparently endless labours. As he approached the
door, where the light seemed to flow out as from
a furnace of suffering to straggle away into the
darkness, he was suddenly aware of two women
coming up the river path. They seemed to be
carrying a clothes basket piled high with white
wash between them.

It was Mrs. Crittendon and Margaret. They had
torn up everything in the way of cotton or linen
at Coiner’s Retreat and rolled it into bandages.

“We asked for you at the camp,” said Mrs.
Crittendon, “and they told us to come here. We
thought perhaps you could use these and that we
might help. Can you? May we?” said she, entering
the crowded place, and looking about her without
wincing. An infinite compassion swept over her
fine, mobile face.

Dr. Holtzmaier made grateful noises in his
throat.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 371

“ Madam,” said Dr. Wilson, “permit us to
welcome angels of mercy to this demoniacal little
dwelling.”

The three doctors and the two women went to
work as though they had always worked together.
Watching them, the waiting men took courage.
They stifled the groans at their lips. Margaret
wept and smiled — and bandaged. The hours flew
by. Mr. Mann renewed the oil in the counter lamps.
And still they worked.

About midnight the stretcher-bearers brought in
the colonel of the 6th Pennsylvania Cavalry and
laid him out on table number one. He was still
conscious and insisted on waiting his turn.

Presently Dr. Wilson, Dr. Holtzmaier, and Mrs.
Crittendon were bending over him. It was necessary
to take his left leg off just below the hip. The
assistants approached to hold him down.

“If this little lady will give me her hand, I
think I can lie still,” said the colonel, and put his
palm in Margaret’s.

The swift movements of the surgeon’s fingers
began. The sound of a saw on bone filled the room.

“Never mind doing that,” said the colonel
suddenly, sitting up in spite of himself, “never
mind . . .” and fell back fainting into the arms
of Mrs. Crittendon.

372

ACTION AT AQUILA

III

Now that he had been struck again, Paul
Crittendon was not so sure that he wanted to die.

Unfortunately he had fallen about the end of the
afternoon, and far up the field near the ruins of
Aquila, where the woods began. The stretcher-
bearers would not be able to search those thickets
effectively until daylight next morning. Now it
was dark, and it did occur to Paul that he might
be dying. He was so weak.

It was his crowd, the gang from farther up the
Valley with the old Virginia militia flag, that had
made the last attack on Aquila. They had been
driven back several times. That is everybody
gathered about the flag had been killed or wounded.
The ruined town was full of the Union Zouaves,
who, after their advance, had fallen back upon it
and held it desperately.

They were good riflemen, those fellows. They
picked you off before you could get at them.
Paul knew! He had made three rushes on the place,
the last time carrying the flag himself. Then those
masses of Union cavalry had come and driven
everybody away. There was no one left to gather
about the colours, old neighbours and Valley
men, until somebody should say, “Come on, men,
let’s drive ’em back” — and try it again. No, every-
body was gone now, everybody but the dead.

THE ACTION AT AQ,UILA 373

Their faces glimmered here and there through the
underbrush.

Paul was sitting on a log, nursing his arm. He
had been struck in the same old arm again, this
time above the elbow.

The pain was so maddening at first that he had
dropped the flag and rushed off headlong through
the woods, completely out of his head. How
or where he went, he did not know. Loss of blood
and a general numbness finally brought him to a
standstill.

It was after sunset when he had sat down on
the log. He took off a bootlace and made a tourni-
quet for his dripping arm. Because he could feel
almost nothing now, he thought at first he felt
better. As the night grew colder his head became
clearer. He could still think, although the world
seemed far away. The cries of the night-birds were
strangely distant.

A long way off through the trees he could see a
dim glimmering of lanterns or reflections from a
camp-fire. Finally, the light blazed up and he
caught a glimpse of old brick walls red against the
darkness.

He knew then he must still be near Aquila.
Probably the Yankees were about yet. But the
fight was over. He might get medical aid from
them. They would probably parole him anyhow —
and Coiner’s Retreat was just beyond.

374 ACTION AT AQUILA

A great homesickness for Flossie, for Meg and
Aunt Libby, overcame the boy. If they would only
come and get him now, and speak to him with their
soft voices, and put their warm arms about him.
Oh, how he needed their comfort ! He cried miser-
ably. He felt like a lost little boy again. They
had loved him. And he had run away — for this!

Well, he would go back again ! Over there was
the springhouse at Aquila. The children would
come to play there tomorrow. Flossie would bring
them. He would go to the springhouse and wait.
Tomorrow they would find him, waiting, and they
would be so sorry. Tomorrow . . .

He rose to his feet and was almost overcome
with a sickening, empty dizziness. His heart
pounded insufferably. He fell down. It was then
that it first occurred to him that he really might
die. And now he didn’t want to die. He wanted
to live, to get back to Coiner’s Retreat. He lay
over the log panting.

If he didn’t try to stand upright, he discovered
it wasn’t so bad. No, he was “all right” again.
Of course, he couldn’t die when Aquila was just
a little way off through the trees. Why, he could
crawl there ! They would find him — tomorrow.
He started to crawl.

It was a long way to crawl. He pulled himself
along with one arm and shoved when he could with
his legs. He was terribly thirsty. The vision of the

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 375

springhouse, finally, of nothing but the water
there, danced before his eyes. Blackness and grey
spots at times overcame him. He waited and
breathed. Presently he would see the glow through
the trees again, and it was always a little nearer.

He began to pass a good many dead men in the
open. There were no trees ahead either. Rising to
his knees for an instant, he discovered that he was
in the open fields once more. He looked up but he
could see no stars. A drop of cold rain splashed on
his cheek. If it rained it would put the fire out, and
he might lose his direction. It was an old fire left
flickering in the ruins. He could see that now.
Nobody seemed to be there. Indeed, the 23rd
Illinois had evacuated the place two hours before.
What was left of them was now in the camp by
the river.

Paul pushed desperately on. He must make it!
The springhouse ! Tomorrow . . . or — or he would
die. He, Paul, would die. It still seemed impossible.
He was too weak to weep now. His thirst left him.
He lay with his head on his good arm, resting.
Afterwhile he would go on. It was impossible that
he should die just a quarter of a mile away from
the springhouse at Aquila. Flossie would be there
tomorrow — tomorrow. She would find him. He
went all ovei it. But he must rest. The rain was
slowly beginning, big drops now and then. He
heard someone calling.

376 ACTION AT AQUILA

He had heard such voices before. But they had
been far away or lost in the thickets. Most of the
wounded about the ruined village had been carried
off by the 23rd Illinois when they left. Away out
in the darkness Paul could still hear a lot of them
“hollerin’.” They and the night-birds seemed to be
wailing together. But this chap was near, somewhere
just in front of him. He stopped to listen again.

“Oh, lordy, lordy, lordy!” said the voice, with a
kind of sob in it.

To Paul there was something dimly familiar in
the tones. He started to crawl forward again, a
little to the left towards the sound. A pitiful,
shuddering crying came to him through the dark-
ness.

“Colonel Franklin,” called the voice again.
“Oh, lordy! Oh, Colonel Frank-lin!”

“Hi, Yank?” said Paul, and listened.

The whippoorwills sang.

“Hi, Johnny,” replied the voice.

“Who’s there?” it said again at last, tense with
hope or terror.

“It’s me,” said Paul fatuously. He crawled over
towards the murmured cries. A bundle with a white
face came in sight. He leaned over it.

“Bill, don’t you know me?” cried Paul. “It’s
Paul, Paul Crittendon. Farfar!” He shook the dim
form by the shoulder. William Farfar looked up at
him.

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 377

“Paul,” he said weakly. “Paul Crittendon?”
He put up his hand and took hold of Paul’s hair to
assure himself of the reality.

“I’m dreamin’ some and I can’t alers tell the
difference,” whispered Farfar. “You’re really
there?”

“I’m here, but I’m awful hurt,” said Paul.

“I’m sorry, I cain’t help you. I’m shot in the
back. I cain’t move me from the belt down.” He
gasped a little. “Say, it’s gitten cold, ain’t it?”
he added after a moment.

“Yes,” said Paul, and shivered.

The whippoorwills sang on. The fire in the ruins
flickered and died away to a dull-red glow. Aquila
was infinitely far away. Paul rested. He remembered
how Farfar had nursed him a few weeks before.
He was muttering something, and Paul listened.

“Mom,” said Farfar, whispering. “Mom, I’m
cold. Kiver me up.”

A vision of his own mother sitting on the balcony
of the old house on Shockoe Hill, with her sewing
basket beside her, flashed upon Paul with over-
powering effect. Never imaginative, now he could
no longer tell the difference between reality and the
dream. Weakness suddenly thrust his mind and the
past upon him. He was a very little boy again
playing about his mother’s chair, crawling. The
warm Richmond sunlight glinted delightfully upon
his mamma’s fascinatingly-embroidered slippers;

378 ACTION AT AQUILA

on a veritable rose of Sharon that glowed on the
toe. Why, he had forgotten how terribly beautiful
that beaded flower had been! And it was still
there! “Mother!” — It was a complete hallucina-
tion. The glowing rose vanished in the past where
it had lain hidden. Paul was back in the darkness
again. Lost.

“Oh,” cried Paul, “oh, my God,” and threw
himself despairingly upon the breast of Farfar.

“Don’t die, don’t go away,” he cried. “Bill,
Bill, they hadn’t ought to have done this to us.
Can you hear me, Bill? It’s Paul, Paul Grittendon,
I’m still here.”

“Yes, I can hear you, Paul,” said Farfar after a
little. “Where’s Margaret, Margaret Crittendon?”

“Lost,” whispered Paul. “ We’re alone. Don’t
you remember?”

“Yes, I remember now.” And then after a little —
“Can you hear me, Paul?”

“I can still hear.”

“ Well, you won’t never leave me, Paul, will
you?”

“ Never,” said Paul, “never! ” — and he never
did.

Over the fields and woods came the pelting swish
of rain. At first it was like the soft, swift patter of
wolves’ feet running over the dead leaves. The
night-birds ceased, turned off. All those who were
still left on the field began to cry out together. The

THE ACTION AT AQUILA 379

tired stretcher-bearers, doing their best, heard them
and tried desperately to hurry. And then, almost
without notice, except for a brief flurry of bitter,
damp wind, the rain turned to sleet. The ice storm
tinkled. All the cries ceased. Later on, a light snow
began to fall as quietly as feathers from the wings of
Death. The fields at Aquila were finally silent.
Nature, as always, had her quiet way at last.

The bodies of William Farfar and Paul Critten-
don were frozen together. No one could tell which
side they belonged to now. They died trying to
keep each other warm. Peacefully.

Colonel Franklin was also sleeping peacefully,
but he was still alive. They had carried him back to
Coiner’s Retreat.

CHAPTER XVIII

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION

It was towards morning when, owing to
the urgent solicitude of both Drs. Wilson and
Holtzmaier, Mrs. Crittendon and Margaret were
finally prevailed upon to return to Coiner’s Retreat
An old army wagon belonging to Felix Mann was
provided, and it was only after Mrs. Crittendon
had been helped up into the high seat, when she
leaned back to relax for the first time in many
hours, that she understood how tired she was.
Margaret rested her head against her mother’s
shoulder for a moment and went to sleep like a
baby.

As Mrs. Crittendon looked down at the little
farmhouse dooryard with the smoky glow of Mr.
Mann’s whale-oil lamps glimmering through the
fanlight, and illuminating brief flurries of snow that
whirled past the windows, the place had once more
the simple, homelike air of a Virginia farm. It
seemed impossible that such scenes as she had just
witnessed could ever have taken place there.

No, it was not “the demoniacal little dwelling”
lately so described by Dr. Wilson. It was, it was
. . . She nodded involuntarily. The outer world

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 381

seemed to pitch down a slope. She must sleep soon
or —

The next thing she knew Dr. Holtzmaier was
wrapping blankets about her and Margaret, and
saying something. They were not to take cold.
They were to “drink dis.” They were to hurry
home and to bed. Dr. Holtzmaier’s hoarse, tired
voice rumbled on, giving directions to Dr. Wilson
how to reach Coiner’s Retreat, larded with exhorta-
tions to a contraband by the name of Culpepper to
drive carefully, and to remember he had a wounded
man and two ladies — and if he didn’t drive care-
fully “py Gott! ...”

“ I’ll see to it, my friend,” said Dr. Wilson finally,
trying to reassure the anxious German, as they
helped slide the improvised stretcher upon which
Colonel Franklin was strapped into the dark,
canvas cave of the old wagon. Dr. Wilson climbed in
with a lantern and sat beside the unconscious
colonel, who was breathing faintly under the effect
of a heavy dose of laudanum Dr. Holtzmaier had
administered some hours before. “Much too much,”
muttered the Confederate surgeon. But he had said
nothing at the time, for he hardly expected the
colonel to live since he had lost so much blood.
“Faint but steady,” he said to the other surgeon,
as he felt the colonel’s pulse under the blanket.
“He may pull through.”

“ I gif you all der spare subblies I haf,” continued

382 ACTION AT AQUILA

Dr. Holtzmaier. “Py him I know you do the pest
you can. Danks, goot luck, und auf wiedersehen.
You get pack tru der lines already all right soon;
you stay here und der damn vools but you in brison.”

Dr. Wilson reached out through the canvas and
shook his colleague by the hand. “Thanks, my
good friend,” he said.

Dr. Holtzmaier stood watching the wagon
disappear into the darkness, its lantern dimiiiishing
into the swirling snow. Up to the last minute
Felix Mann had kept piling things into it. He came
out now, but too late, with another package, and
stood with the doctor till the noise of wheels died
away up the road towards Aquila.

“Has he got a chance?” asked Mann as they
turned to go in.

“ Maype,” replied Dr. Holtzmaier dubiously.
“ Mit Mrs. Crittendon und dat doctor, maype.
Anyvay I gif him der last chanst.” They went in.
The door banged behind them, and for the first
time in many hours Dr. Holtzmaier sat down.

The arrival of additional medical help with the
passing cavalry divisions had unexpectedly relieved
him. There were now plenty of surgeons and
medical supplies. Orders had already come to
evacuate the wounded to the hospitals at Harpers
Ferry. The ambulances had gone. The little
house was silent again. It had even been mopped
out. Nothing remained now but the wreck of Mr.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 383

Felix Mann’s canteen, and the embers of the fire.
The doctor heaped some more fuel on it and sat
down with his feet stretched out. “I do der pest I
know,” he kept muttering.

He had. He had sent the colonel off to Coiner’s
Retreat, because he knew he would never survive
the cold, rough trip of two days to Harpers Ferry.
And he had managed to slip the Confederate
surgeon into the wagon too, before any questions
were asked. That gave him enormous satisfaction.
As to what would become of himself, now that
his regiment was all but wiped out, he would let
the authorities settle that. Now he must sleep. He
had the shakes. He coloured a glass of water with
some laudanum and tossed it off. “To hell mit all
der damn vools,” he said, by way of a toast.
Presently he began to snore heavily and mightily
like the wind in a Pennsylvania Dutch chimney.
The fire leaped and the room grew deliciously
warm. Mr. Felix Mann dragged the doctor back
so that his boots wouldn’t burn, settled the logs, and
taking the last remaining lantern, walked out into
the night after carefully closing the door behind
him. He had an appointment to keep at Aquila.
It was a little matter of business strictly his own.

Meanwhile, the wagon had arrived at the foot
of the natural dam below the meadow at Coiner’s
Retreat. The night was impenetrably dark there,
the woods deathly silent, except for the lonely voice

384 ACTION AT AQUILA

of the waterfall and a few owls. With the snow sifting
down through the pine trees, the wagon stood at the
foot of the steep ascent, a kind of huge shadow of
itself, leaking a little light here and there. There
was something secret and funereal about its vast
bulk that seemed to need only a few plumes
appropriately to crown it. By this and other things
— they had passed several dead men lower down in
the village — the negro Culpepper, who “belonged”
to Mr. Felix Mann, was reduced to a gibbering
caricature of himself. The deadly night-shade aspect
of the world all about was more than he could abide.
Dr. Wilson, indeed, had finally been forced to
waken Mrs. Crittendon, to take the reins himself
and drive up the stream under her calm direction.
Nothing could have formed a more violent contrast
than the quiet voice of Mrs. Crittendon directing
the expert driving of Dr. Wilson against the
hysterical background of the prayers, moans, and
chatterings of Culpepper, who had now crawled
under the big box seat.

With the cessation of motion Margaret awoke.
She felt her mother’s arms about her. By the roar
of the falls she knew where they were. She put her
arms about her mother’s neck and whispered,
“We’re coming home again, aren’t we?” In the
darkness, with the frantic negro flopping about
under their feet like a caged animal, mother and
daughter exchanged a comforting embrace.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 385

Dr. Wilson went ahead a little with the lantern
to look at the ascent. It was manifestly impossible
with only two mules. The colonel would have to be
carried over the dam. Culpepper, he knew, would
be useless. Margaret understood that immediately,
and saying she would bring Mr. Kiskadden back to
help, flitted up into the woods over the crest before
anyone could stop her.

Dr. Wilson and Mrs. Crittendon were left alone
with one lantern, Culpepper, and the owls. The
doctor put his hand in the wagon and felt under
the blanket again to see if the colonel were still
alive. He was. Under the seat Culpepper began to
conduct a prayer meeting all of his own that soon
attained the frenzy of a revival. The roar of the
waterfall continued, the snow drifted past the
narrow circle of the lantern, and the negro appeared
to be going insane. Dr. Wilson’s patience came to an
end.

He reached under the seat, and hauling him out
by the throat, pointed a pistol between his eyes.

“Stop that,” said the doctor, “or you’re a dead
nigger.”

Culpepper gurgled, then he relaxed onto his knees.
The doctor put the pistol back in his pocket again.

“Get up on the seat and take the lines,” said
Dr. Wilson, “and don’t let me hear another word
out of you, you rascal. You sit there and watch those
mules! Keep your eyes right between their ears.”

BBa

386 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Yas, sah, yas, massah,” muttered the negro,
climbing into the wagon. Dr. Wilson gave him a
drink.

“I kin see dem mules’ ears, tank Gode!” said
Culpepper after a while. “Dere’s two white ones.”

“Watch ’em!” replied the doctor.

“I tank you, massah doctah,” murmured Cul-
pepper after a while, “yoh sho’ fotched me outa
hell.”

The doctor and Mrs. Crittendon looked at each
other and smiled. He leaned wearily against the
wagon wheel, shielding the guttering lantern in a
fold of his coat. Some heavy gusts of wind tore
through the trees above them.

“We shall be happy to have you be with us at
Coiner’s Retreat, doctor,” said Mrs. Crittendon,
“for as long as you can stay. My husband is a major
on General Early’s staff. He was born here in the
Valley. You will be among friends.”

“Your kindness leaves no doubt that you are a
true Virginian, madam,” replied the doctor, who
guessed that Mrs. Crittendon was a little worried
as to what he might think of her for giving shelter
to a Yankee. “And I shall do what I can for the
gentleman in the wagon. In one way at least I think
he is a fortunate man. I hear great things of him.”

For the first time the full implications of bringing
Colonel Franklin back with her came home to
Mrs. Crittendon. Dr. Holtzmaier had simply put

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 387

him into the wagon with the remark that he would
certainly die if he had to send him by mule ambu-
lance to Harpers Ferry. “ Mit you I gif him der one
last chanst.” It had seemed inevitable. It had never
occurred to Dr. Holtzmaier’s simple heart that
Mrs. Crittendon might demur. As a matter of fact
she had not. To her, too, it had seemed inevitable.
She had been terribly tired — much too exhausted
to think it over, anyway. Dr. Holtzmaier had loaded
the wagon. Among other things in it, bound for
Coiner’s Retreat, was Colonel Nathaniel Franklin.
And yet now that she fell to thinking it over, “ What
else could I have done?” she asked herself. “I
couldn’t just say, ‘ Well, let him die,’ could I?”

Would he die? she wondered. She trembled at the
thought.

“Do you think — do you think Colonel Franklin
will live?” she asked the doctor.

“ It will be impossible to answer for some littie
time yet,” replied Dr. Wilson. “But no, I shall be
honest with you!” he exclaimed suddenly. “I
don’t think so. He has lost too much blood.”

Mrs. Crittendon gasped. Her emotion was
curiously mixed. It was a poignant and unbearable
fear and grief at the thought of losing the colonel.
It was a feeling of shocked surprise and indignant
annoyance at herself for feeling so.

“You knew him before the war?” Dr. Wilson

was saying.

388 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Oh, yes,” she answered almost automatically.
It seemed the only way out. Immediately, she was
thankful Margaret had not been there to hear her.

A lantern danced on the top of the dam. Dr.
Wilson signalled. Old man Kiskadden began to
descend the slope. The colonel’s litter came sliding
slowly out of the wagon. Dr. Wilson and Mr.
Kiskadden staggered up the slope with the colonel.
Mrs. Crittendon went before with the light. It was all
inevitable, she kept saying to herself. “Inevitable!”

Presently they were carrying him upstairs into
Paul’s room and making him comfortable. She
brought one of her husband’s night-shirts. She had
kept them in case . . . Dr. Wilson took off the
colonel’s coat. A packet dropped out. He looked
at it.

“It is addressed to you,” he said simply, handing
it up to her. And Mrs. Crittendon stood looking
down at her husband’s familiar handwriting.

She was not clairvoyant, yet she knew as certainly
as though she had opened it what was in that
packet. Her eyes wandered to the face of the man
on the bed.

Suddenly she was down on her knees beside him,
shaking him by the shoulder. “ Why didn’t you give
it to me,” she said vehemently, “why didn’t you?”

“Madam,” said Dr. Wilson, shocked and sur-
prised, “can’t you see? Don’t you know the colonel
is unconscious?”

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 389

Elizabeth Crittendon looked at the pale, calm
face before her. The shadows seemed to be gather-
ing about the mouth. She did not repeat her useless
inquiry. She didn’t have to. As she looked at
Colonel Franklin she knew why he had not given
her the packet. She could guess it all, and she put
her head down on the bed and sobbed.

Dr. Wilson did not make the mistake of trying to
comfort her. Ever since 1861 he had seen women
weeping like that. The colonel, he felt sure, was
going to die — was dying. He sat down on a chair
and wrapped a blanket about himself. His head
slumped down on his breast. Eventually he was
dimly aware that Mrs. Crittendon had left the room.
He wished to God she would get him something
warm to drink. He dozed.

Mrs. Crittendon stopped at the children’s door
and heard them breathing quietly. The sound
brought a certain sense of comfort to her heart.
She went half-way down the stairs and listened.
The house was very quiet below.

“Margaret,” said she, “Margaret?”

There was no answer.

“Meg, Meg,” she called miserably. “Come to
me. Your father’s dead.”

But there was still no answer. Someone had
started the clock again. She could hear it ticking.
The fire crackled. She came down the rest of the
way into the big living-room. Both fires were

390 ACTION AT AQ_UILA

burning brightly. Mr. Kiskadden must have re-
plenished them only a few minutes before. But the
room was deserted. Margaret, Flossie, and old
man Kiskadden had gone and taken the lanterns.
There was nothing but firelight in the room.

Ordinarily she would have wondered; have
worried about them. All that she knew now was
that Margaret had not come to her. That she was
left alone. She sat down before the fire and picked
open the packet with dull fingers. A ring and a
brooch fell out.

She leaned forward towards the fire and by its
wavering light read the last message from her hus-
band, written months before. There were no tears in
her eyes. It was beyond that. If the writing wavered
it was due to the flickering light of the flames. She sat
back now dry-eyed, her hands folded in her lap.

The letter seemed to have come to her out of the
remote past. Try as she would, she could not
recapture it. It seemed to be someone else’s past.
Someone who was very dear to her and who had
told her the story. It was a happy story. Happy,
except that all through it now rang like the recur-
ring lines of a dirge in a ballad three words of
desolation — “Douglas is dead.”

Stop! Stop! Why did they keep on saying that
to her?

She put her hands over her ears and realized
then that she had been saying it aloud to herself.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 391

And now she knew, understood quietly and with
all its implications — “Douglas is dead.”

The clock ticked on.

For the first time in her life Elizabeth Crittendon
sat looking grim. She was not thinking about the
past now. She was trying to rearrange the future,
and in certain ways she could see it clearly enough.
She was entirely alone. She was glad now that
Margaret had not been there to comfort her or to
be comforted. She had been left alone, and from
that nadir she could go on again through anything.
When a woman once realizes that she can be left
alone and still go on living, that life lies in herself
and not elsewhere, something either heroic or
diabolic is set free. Mrs. Crittendon was not diabolic.
Time was still going on and she with it.

She was reminded of that forcibly when, with an
indescribable harshness, the clock on the mantel
above her whirred and struck three. Undoubtedly
someone had deliberately set it going once more.
It would never pause eternally on two again. That
had been, after all — an accident.

Oh, dear accident! How she had tried to project
that into eternity. And now she was back in time
again, alone.

She picked up the letter in her lap, the ring and
brooch, and wrapped them in it. Then she rose,
opened the front of the clock and dropped them
into its deep base. She stood there for a moment

392 ACTION AT AQ^UILA

watching the hand move slowly in the firelight to
the sound of the slow, somnolent ticking. Then she
turned rapidly. Someone was coming downstairs.

It was Dr. Wilson.

“Madam,” said he, still formally and with an
Old World courtesy, although his face was grey
with fatigue. “It is the custom in Charleston to
have a little coffee and grits in the morning. Now
I wonder ...”

But he didn’t have to wonder long.

“You are an angel ” said he a little later over his
third steaming cup — “and what coffee! ”

“Made by a woman” said Mrs. Crittendon
without looking up.

The doctor paused and looked at her keenly. He
accepted the correction by turning the cup about
in his hands. “But it has a divine flavour,” he
murmured. His wise, old, grey eyes looked at her
with great kindliness over the brim and they
smiled at each other.

“You have had much to bear,” said he. “ Women
do. Come, help me with the gentleman upstairs!
He is in a bad way. And I am only a surgeon, you
know. The time for the knife is over. It is warm
blankets, whisky, and hot water — coffee — things like
that that can help.”

They fought together for Colonel Franklin’s life
all morning. They tried to keep him warm and his
heart going.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION

393

He came out of the opiate afterwhile. “Oh,
Elizabeth,” he said, “did they send me to you?”
She nodded and gave him her hand.

When the late winter dawn came through the
snow-spattered panes, he was still breathing and
his pulse was steadier. Dr. Wilson leaned his arm
on the bed and wilted down into an exhausted sleep.
Outside, it was still snowing and the girls and Mr.
Kiskadden had not come back yet. Mrs. Crittendon
would ordinarily have been frantic about them. But
she could feel no more. She got the children their
breakfast and managed to smile at them.

“Where’s Meg and Flossie, Aunt Libby?”
demanded little Mary.

“I know. She’s gone to find her beau,” sang out
Timmy.

“Far, far away
Far, far way.”

The two children chanted it together and
giggled. It was a joke they had made up all by
themselves to tease Margaret.

“ Come here, Mary,” said Mrs. Crittendon. She
laid her hand on the little girl’s hair. “Look at me,”
said she. “Now remember, Mary, never sing that
again / ”

Years afterwards Mary remembered the look .
in her aunt Elizabeth’s eyes that morning. In it
was concentrated all the agony of the years of war.

394 ACTION AT AQUILA

She dropped her head into her aunt’s lap and let
her stroke her curls.

Timmy kept charging about the room on a
stick, shouting “boom, boom, boom.” There was no
stopping him. It would take another war to do that.

n

Snow is probably the best thing that can take
place on a battle-field, especially if the battle has
been fought only the day before. It covers the
remnants of human frailty and havoc with a pall
of impersonal innocence, it restores a decent surface
to the appearance of things. Probably, if there had
not been snow the night after the action at Aquila,
Margaret and Flossie would not have been able to
search the battle-field in the darkness of the early
morning hours with only a single lantern between
them. The snow, of course, did not make their task
any easier. It did not help them to find what they
were looking for — quite the contrary. It did, however,
make it just bearable — and just bearably tellable.

All during the fiery hours of the ordeal at the
dressing station the evening before, young Margaret
had kept looking for one face, and one only, among
the wounded. She had asked Colonel Franklin if
he had seen Farfar, but he had only been able to
shake his head. Strangers she could not bring her-
self to ask, but that Farfar had not returned to
camp among the survivors she had been able

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 395

definitely to ascertain. When she returned to
Coiner’s Retreat ahead of her mother, to get the
help of old Mr. Kiskadden in carrying the colonel
up to the cabin, she had found Flossie obsessed
with the idea that Paul had been in the battie too.

Flossie could give no reason for the conviction —
did not attempt to do so. She and her father had
stayed all afternoon with the children, listening to
the manifold reverberations of the fight on the fields
below, and with every discharge of artillery the fear
that Paul might be there had been re-aroused and
magnified until she knew that he was there, must
be there, and that every gun was killing him.

Indeed, the rolling echoes of slaughter continuing
for hours had brought everybody at Coiner’s
Retreat into an unbearable state of tension. It
had been all the worse that they could not see, did
not know surely, what was going on. At the height
of the action the face of the hill just opposite the
cabin had seemed to be speaking to them with an
articulate thunder. Peal after appeal. It was that,
in particular, which had finally caused Mrs.
Crittendon to begin tearing up the available
material in the house for bandages and to start
with Margaret for the hospital in the Valley.
Flossie had necessarily been left behind to look
after the children — and to worry about Paul.

Mr. Kiskadden had taken as much looking after
as the children. As the rumbling echoes went on

396 ACTION AT AQUILA

hour after hour, as little Timmy continued to rush
about shouting “boom, boom,” while Flossie sat
on the steps weeping and little Mary hugged her
doll — it had gradually dawned upon the half-
eclipsed consciousness of the once-fiery old preacher
what was going on. His face flushed, the sweat
streamed down under his wide, flopping collar,
some hidden spring of energy seemed released in
him, and he rose to the occasion by striding up
and down the plank porch of the cabin, uttering
exhortations, lamentations, and wild prayers for
the dying in exalted and at times prophetic imagery.

To Flossie this sudden metamorphosis of her
father was uncanny and terrifying. He looked to
her once more like the father she remembered, ten
years before, the man whose word was moral law,
whose eloquence had stirred and seared the people
of the mountains. It made her feel like a little girl
again, and it made it difficult if not impossible for
her to command him.

So Flossie clutched Mary, while Mary clutched
her doll ; and they both sat listening to the thunder-
ous echoes of the fighting and the no less rolling
periods of the now rejuvenated Reverend James
Kiskadden. That, and her fears for Paul, had
horribly whiled away the afternoon of the battle
for Flossie.

Towards nightfall, when the children went to bed,
she had finally prevailed upon her father to come

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 397

inside and sup. He had become quiet then. He no
longer strode up and down. But his eyes still
smouldered, and there was a strange flush of youth
in his cheeks.

Neither he nor Flossie could sleep. The silence
now seemed tremendous. Making a sheer guess at
the time, the old man started the clock ticking
again. When Margaret had finally rushed in during
the small hours of the morning, demanding help
to carry Colonel Franklin, Mr. Kiskadden had
sprung from his chair and run clear to the dam.
Nor did that exhaust him. It was not until they
entered the house that Dr. Wilson realized that
his fellow litter-bearer was not exactly an agile
young man.

Meanwhile, Flossie had poured out her fears for
Paul on the breast of Margaret. Margaret stood
listening as though to the words of her own heart,
looking out into the shadows over the bowed head
of Flossie, with wide and fearful eyes.

“And my Willum’s there too,” she finally whis-
pered.

Flossie looked up at her.

“Oh, Meg,” she said, “God forgive me, I’d
forgot about him!”

The two girls kissed each other.

“Listen!” whispered Margaret. “We’ll go look
for them both tonight. Can you do that, Flossie —
durst you?”

398 action at aquila

“Let’s never come back till we find them,” wept
Flossie. “I don’t care if I don’t.”

“Nor I,” said Margaret, and they clung close
again. “Now run up to the chest and get some
heavy shawls. It’s going to snow hard.”

And so it had all been arranged before Mrs.
Crittendon and Dr. Wilson got back with the
colonel. While they were upstairs settling him in
Paul’s bedroom, Margaret and Flossie slipped out.

“ Gome on, pa, you’re needed,” said Flossie, tos-
sing a shawl over her head, “and bring that light.”

Margaret did not realize that Mr. Kiskadden was
with them till they reached the top of the dam. At
first she had intended to saddle Midge and her
mother’s horse but she had given that up in favour
of the wagon that she knew must still be waiting.
And Mr. Kiskadden might as well come, she
supposed. He could return in the wagon after they
reached Aquila.

Culpepper was so glad to see them — and the
lantern — that it took both Mr. Kiskadden and
Margaret to get the mules and the wagon turned
about. Margaret drove. She used the whip on the
mules, and threatened to use it on Culpepper. The
animals felt they were returning, and waded down
the pebbly bed of the icy stream without balking.
But it would have made little difference if they had.
For in the mind of Margaret burned a fixed resolve
that was not to be balked.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION

399

Snug in the lee of a battered brick wall in the
ruined village of Aquila sat Mr. Felix Mann and a
pale, sharp-nosed gentleman all wrapped up in a
buttonless Amishman’s overcoat. A log fire was
smouldering in the featureless fireplace of what had
once been a living-room but was now a ruinous
hole gaping open to the sky, except for a convenient
portion of collapsed roof propped upon fire-scarred
timbers. This, at the moment, kept the snow off.

That the nature of their business was private rather
than official was best indicated by the fact that Mr.
Mann had been at some pains to nail an old blanket
across a small window that looked down the Valley
towards the camp. On the opposite side the wall had
partly collapsed, and a considerable extent of wild
landscape towards the Blue Ridge was to be seen.

“I’m damn’ glad the wind ain’t whistlin’ down
from the mountings,” remarked the gentleman in the
long overcoat, as he heaved part of an old stump on
the fire. “It’s cold, and it’s gettin’ colder. Tomorrow
you’ll see it’ll come on to snow in arnest. I’d like to
git back to the Ferry before the roads are closed.”

“You can go back tomorrow with one of the
sick convoys,” growled Mr. Mann.

The log, full of resin, unexpectedly blazed up
into a sudden glare.

400 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Lord!” said Mr. Mann, “what did you do that
fer, Perkins? You’ll have all the provosts for miles
around cornin’ down on us. And I’ll bet you there’s
still plenty of rebels lurkin’ about in the woods.”

“I’ll bet you a dead man’s watch there hain’t,”
countered Mr. Perkins, jingling in the pockets of his
overcoat. “And I ought to know. Ain’t I been all
over this part of the field in the last two hours?
Thar’s no rebels, ’cause none of the dead hev been
stripped. Our cavalry’s made a clean sweep this
time. Any skulkers left in the woods is layin’ low,
and there ain’t no provosts either. I tell you the
hull of Sheridan’s army is on the move south. You’ll
see! They’re leavin’ the Valley. It’ll be lonely as one
shoe. I’ll bet you some of them pore fellers out there
don’t get buried till spring.”

“All the same, Perkins,” said Mr. Mann, “don’t
throw no more wood on that fire.”

“All right, all right,” replied the gentleman in the
overcoat. “But how about gettin’ down to business? ”

“Well, how many have you got?” demanded
Mr. Mann.

“Not so many,” said Mr. Perkins, beginning to
whine a little. “This wasn’t a big fight, you know. I
think it’s about eighteen or twenty. I lost count, you
see. It ain’t any fun crawlin’ around out there in the
dark and feelin’ ’em. Whew! ” A look of stark horror
came into his eyes. “God, you oughta seen . . .”

“Never mind, never mmd. Shell out!” exclaimed

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 40I

Mr. Mann impatiently. “What d’ya expect? This
is a war, ain’t it?”

At which Mr. Perkins dived down into the deep
pockets of his Amish overcoat and began to dribble
gold watches, seals, and chains onto the old hearth
before the fire. There were twenty-one.

“Not so bad,” said Mr. Mann. He began to
divide the watches before him into two piles after
examining them carefully. “That’s Sixth Pennsyl-
vania time,” said he. “ I can get more returnin’ ’em
for reward to the boys’ people than they’re worth.
Them are mine,” he added, “and I’ll give you
half of what I get from the rest when I sell ’em.
Ain’t that our agreement?”

“Yep,” said Mr. Perkins, who had learned from
previous transactions that Mr. Mann kept his
word. “What do you think they’ll bring?”

“Dunno,” mused Mr. Mann; “depends what
gold’s fetchin’. It’s goin’ up I think, and I’m goin’
to wait till spring. I’m goin’ to set right through the
winter at the old canteen down there. It’s comfort-
able, I’ve got grub, and now that the old regiment’s
bruk by this fight my business is gone. So I’ll wait.
Do you know,” said he half to himself, as he tied
up the watches in two large bandannas, “ I kind o’
think the war’s gettin’ near its end. I’m jes’ goin’
to wait and set pretty. There’s bound to be good
pickin’ down South afterwards, if you’re smart.”

“ May be,” admitted Mr. Perkins with a certain

CCa

402 ACTION AT AQ,UI L A

note of admiration for Mr. Mann’s perspicacity.

“D’ya know I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, think it over,” yawned Mr. Mann.
“You might want to stay with me here till we can
talk it out and fix somethin’ up.”

“No, no, I think I’ll be gettin’ back to Madam
O’Riley and the girls for a while,” replied Mr.
Perkins. “She won’t be able to follow the flag no
more if the army’s movin’. She’ll go back to the
Ferry. There’s bound to be a big base and a
garrison there for some time, convalescents, and the
railroad. I ain’t doin’ so bad either,” he chuckled.
“What with my share of the take, an’ little favours
from the girls o’ various kinds, an’ friskin’ the pore
dead boys, I’m gettin’ ahead. If it will only last a
little longer . . . ” He paused thoughtfully to
transfer a large bead of moisture from the end of
his nose to his sleeve.

“Gawd-amighty!” said he. “What’s that?”

Cloaked in the ambiguous glow cast by a smoky
lantern and seeming to glide along through the
slowly-drifting snowflakes, for their feet were in the
shadows, two hooded figures were passing rapidly
along the road to the battlefield. As they passed
they turned white faces towards the glow of the fire.

A spasm of terror contorted Mr. Perkins’s face.

The figures rapidly disappeared into the snow-
storm. Only the faint glow of the lantern could be
traced. Sometimes it stopped. Then it would go on.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 403

“Bhoy!” whispered Mr. Perkins, drawing his
breath. “Who’s them?”

Mr. Mann did not reply at once. He also had
experienced some of the effects of a reminder of a
world that does not deal in watches.

“ It must be some of the Crittendon women,” he
said at last. “Now what the devil can they be
doing out there?”

The two men stood staring over the top of the
broken wall with some apprehension and great
curiosity at the peregrinations of the mysterious
lantern. They kept getting up and going over to
the wall to watch it. It was scarcely more than a
silver glow at times through the falling snowflakes,
at others it came nearer. It went all along the border
of the woods and once came so near again that they
caught a distant glimpse of the two girls. An hour
or so passed.

“I know,” said Mr. Perkins finally, “they’re
lookin’ for somethin’!”

“God, you’re a bright light!” said Mr. Mann
witheringly. “Look out, or you’ll bring the morning
up before it’s time.”

Not far away the lantern had come to a long stop.
Then one of the girls emerged out of the snowy
darkness, running.

“ Is that you, Miss Crittendon ? ” called Mr. Mann.

“Oh!” said Margaret, stopping in her tracks.
“Yes. Who’s there?”

404 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

“She’s lost her shawl,” said Mr. Perkins. “Pore
gal!”

“ Bury them watches under that pile of leaves in
the corner,” growled Mr. Mann. “She’s cornin’
over here!”

The girl emerged into the firelight. She had
recognized the voice of Mr. Mann. Her face was
that of a beautiful dead woman with wide-open
and staring violet eyes. The snowflakes lay in little
feathery pockets over her golden hair.

The two men involuntarily drew back from her.

“Don’t go away,” she said. “There is one thing
to do yet.”

“What’s that, miss?” said Felix Mann contritely.

“Bury them,” whispered Margaret. “Please.”

There are some things so supercharged with
emotion that the thin wires of human speech burn
out if they attempt to convey it. Only once or twice
in their lives did either Margaret or Flossie speak
of their experience that night on the deserted battle-
field, and only long afterwards. What they did say
was brief enough, but it was remembered and set
down. This remains:

The snow was what made it possible. When they
walked out of the ruined village onto the fields
where the fight had taken place, all that they saw
was an endless extent of meadows with snow

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 4O5

feathering down through the half-luminous winter
darkness against the loom of dark woods beyond.

After they had advanced some distance beyond
the village they began to come across little mounds
covered by about an inch of snow. It was a fine, dry
blanket.

That was where the snow made it difficult. It
was necessary to brush it aside to see who and what
these mounds were.

Flossie held the lantern and Margaret used the
fringe of her shawl as a kind of gentle broom. She
had to take it off to do that. The cold numbed her.
“I was glad of that.”

The girls, it appears, said almost nothing to each
other the entire time they were out there. “We
spoke once or twice.”

Once — when Flossie saw frozen, bearded faces
peering up into the lanternlight the first time
Margaret used the shawl — “ Meg, I’m going to
faint,” she said then.

“If you do,” said Margaret, “I’ll take the light
and leave you alone.”

The greater fear prevailed. They stood for a
moment.

“Can you go on now?” asked Margaret.

“Go on,” said Flossie. She followed.

They must have gone pretty far, for they found
what was left of Black Girl, and Margaret recog-
nized it. Colonel Franklin had been struck off his

406 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

horse near the border of the southern woods by
shrapnel.

At that point they turned back again. They did
not dare hunt in the thickets. That was hopeless.

In the open Margaret used the shawl — how many
times.

They finally had to give up. That was the worst.
The lantern had become badly smoked and it was
necessary to hold it close. Flossie was getting too
cold, or too weak, to do that. So they gave up.
Flossie moaned a little.

They started back towards the glow of the fire
against the brick wall at Aquila. That had all
along given them direction. It was the same fire to
which Paul had been trying to crawl hours before.

Not far from the village they came across a lonely
mound in the snow. They must have passed within
fifty feet of it going out.

“Try it,” said Flossie. It was Margaret who was
failing now. Her shawl flapped.

The faces of the boys looked up out of a pile of
leaves. There was snow on Farfar’s lips. Someone
had disturbed them to take their shoes. Paul was
smiling a little.

Margaret instinctively spread her shawl over the
bare feet. The two girls clung together. Flossie
wrapped her shawl about Margaret. They swayed
a little and trembled. Margaret shivered as though
in an ague.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION

407

“Listen, Meg darling,” said Flossie after a little,
“you’re cold as they are. Run now and get help.
I’ll stay here. I don’t care no more. Only leave me
the light!”

Margaret gave a dry sob and ran. . . .

Flossie put the light down and covered Paul with
her shawl. She arranged Margaret’s over Farfar.
This simple act gave her unspeakable comfort.
She sat by the failing lantern, waiting. “Paul,” she
whispered after a little. “Paul! Speak to me. I’ve
got your baby here, and I ain’t told nobody but
you yet.”

By this time Margaret was sitting by the fire with
Mr. Mann and Mr. Perkins. Mr. Mann gave her a
drink of whisky and wrapped her in the blanket he
took from the window. She could feel nothing at all.

Mr. Mann went to fetch Mr. Kiskadden from
down the road to go with him to get Flossie. Neither
Culpepper nor Mr. Perkins would go out on the
field again.

Margaret sat on in a half-frozen dream. Some-
where, away off, she heard her father’s watch
chiming — a little golden bell ringing out of the
past. How curious ! It was the watch Major Critten-
don had given to his nephew Paul when he was
sixteen. She remembered that now. What a foul
trick of memory! Maybe she was going crazy
hearing a bell like that. How proud Paul had been.
O God ! if she could only forget everything. There

408 action at aquila

had been snow in Willum’s mouth. And now she
was always going to be alone.

“Lost your feller?” asked Mr. Perkins, eyeing
her and the pile of leaves in the corner narrowly.

“Oh, yes!” said Margaret, and wept bitterly.
Mr. Mann brought Flossie to sit beside her. It was
a comfort having her near again. Mr. Mann took
everything in charge now. Margaret’s eyes closed.
The fire roared and crackled up the old chimney as
Mr. Perkins piled on log after log. Morning began
to show grey over the mountains.

When Felix Mann wakened the girls it was full
daylight but snowing steadily. There was no wind.
The snow simply drifted down in large feathery
flakes a little faster, it seemed, every minute. Dr.
Holtzmaier had come up from the canteen where
Mr. Mann had sent Culpepper for tools. There
were a couple of heavy army coats for the girls.

“Quick, blease,” said the doctor, “or mit dis
schnow you vill nefer get home. All iss ready.”

He led them through the village and down the
road towards the ford over Aquila Creek. The
wagon loomed up suddenly through the snow.
There was a group of men standing near by, but
out in the field. They were gathered about some-
thing. The snow had changed the aspect of every-
thing. Here and there a misty fan of light shot clean

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 409

across the Valley high over their heads. The sun
was just looking over the Blue Ridge. Below, you
could see only for a short distance now. Margaret
and Flossie seemed to be moving through a weird
world, lost somewhere. For an instant as the sun
topped the mountains the woods all along the crests
burst into a flaming line of glory — and faded out.

They climbed an old wall and joined the group
in the field. Mr. Mann, Mr. Perkins, old man
Kiskadden, Culpepper, and three soldiers from the
camp stood by. There was a mound of fresh earth
and two figures beside it wrapped in the girls’
shawls. Flossie screamed. The men moved uneasily.
Margaret put her arm about Flossie to steady her.

“I’d forgot,” sobbed Flossie. “I wasn’t really
awake yet.”

“All ready,” said Surgeon Holtzmaier.

There was sudden activity. Margaret thought she
couldn’t weep any more, but she could. Mr.
Kiskadden stood on the top of the mound. It was
coming on to snow much faster. She could just see
him dimly, high up there in the storm. Suddenly
there was silence again and then only Mr. Kis-
kadden’s voice.

“O God of life and death, God of hosts and of the
everlasting cradle, the battle has rolled down the
valley. Let it pass. Stay the hand of them that
trample and slay. Let those that brought confusion
upon the land answer to thee. Look down from thy

410 ACTION AT AQUILA

mercy seat upon these thy stricken servants. Over-
shadow them tenderly like a great tree in the spring.
Remember forever thy children we leave here in
the ground. Catch them up on the wings of the
morning across the river of darkness. Number them
among thy saints, and lost babes. Cause thy
daughters here sweetly to remember and mercifully
to forget. Send comfort unto thy troubled servants,
O God. Have mercy upon us, and bring peace
back into the land.”

The old man’s hat blew off and he pursued it
feebly, his beard and white hair streaming in the
wind. There was the sound of stones, shovelling, and
Margaret and Flossie were being led to the wagon.

The snow closed around them like folds of a great
curtain, swirling nearer and nearer ; white, hurding
through grey darkness out of nowhere. It threatened
to enter the mind.

in

Despite the fact that he was not above making a
ghastly little profit upon the sale of watches whose
owners had no more use for time, Felix Mann was
humanly inconsistent in having a warm heart for
his friends. He was one of those shady little men
capable of giving away with one hand generously
what he craftily extracted from strangers with the
other. But not all his profits were illicit. Under
compulsion he could work honestly and hard.
Colonel Franklin had forced him to do that,

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 4I I

genially, and for that reason Mr. Mann was
devoted to Colonel Franklin. Dr. Holtzmaier felt the
same about the colonel, but for different and better
reasons. Both the surgeon and the sutfer found them-
selves, however, in the same predicament in that
their world, the regiment by which they had lived,
moved, and found self-importance, was no more.

All that remained of the 6th Pennsylvania
Cavalry was the deserted camp torn at by the
winter winds, a few desperately wounded men,
who could not be moved, and a small hospital
detail left to look after them. The rest, the fit, as
well as the convalescents and the evacuable
wounded, had been taken away to hospitals or
incorporated in other commands.

Surgeon Holtzmaier was the commanding officer
of the remnant. He set up his “headquarters” in
Mr. Mann’s ex-canteen, where he proceeded to
make himself disconsolately cosy in a semi-perman-
ent, military style. He guessed he was “in for it”
for the winter, and he was. But even he, although
he was no optimist, had no idea just what and how
much he was “in for.”

It was the snow.

It was snow by accretion. Storms hovered
inveterately over the upper part of the Valley
along the Blue Ridge. It snowed every day, day
after day. And generally it snowed hard.

It had been deep enough the morning they had

4X2 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

finally taken the girls back to Coiner’s Retreat. Mr.
Mann had put four mules to the wagon and had
dragged it, loaded as it was, by main force over the
dam. He had left the wagon, Culpepper, and one
team in the barn near the cabin and brought two
mules back. Culpepper was to rest overnight and
drive back next day. That was early in December.
Culpepper did not appear again in the Valley until
the following March. The stream, the only road
into the place, froze that evening, and it snowed
all night. Dr. Holtzmaier forced his way through for
a visit the following afternoon — and just managed
to get back. That was the last of any visits between
Coiner’s Retreat and the Valley for many a day.

A week later even the main road north to Luray
was definitely closed. Dr. Holtzmaier and Felix
Mann began to reckon up their rations. They still
had twenty-eight men to subsist and there would
be no drawing of further supplies from passing
wagon trains for a long time. The roads along the
South Fork were — There no longer were any
roads. Coiner’s Retreat, only three miles away,
might as well have been a lamasery in Tibet.

“Vot ve need is vlying machines,” said Dr.
Holtzmaier wryly, wondering what would happen
to the colonel.

Afterwards — when she was able to think over
that winter fully, calmly, and in long perspective —
Elizabeth Crittendon could only marvel that those

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 413

left at Coiner’s Retreat had survived. There was
one good thing about it, however; all other diffi-
culties that she was afterwards called upon to
surmount seemed comparatively trivial.

For the “campaign” of the winter of 1864-1865
at Coiner’s Retreat was like the campaign of the
same winter about Richmond. It was a siege
gallantly maintained against overwhelming odds,
with no reserves and diminishing supplies. It
seemed hopeless and it ended in a surrender. But
it was almost entirely a woman’s war — the woman’s
side of the war — almost, but not quite.

For there was Dr. Huger Wilson. He had, of
course, intended to work his way south again as
soon as possible to rejoin the Confederate forces.
Surgeons, he knew, were as much in demand and
almost as scarce as gold about Richmond just then.
He would have gone if he could. But nature would
not let him. He could no more get out of Coiner’s
Retreat than Dr. Holtzmaier could get in. At the
end of a week or so of much snowing the mountain
roads and passes no longer existed. He would simply
have to wait for a thaw and then try it. And that
was what he did.

But that was not all that he did. He devoted
himself first to caring for Colonel Franklin. He
dressed the terrible wound daily. And he brought
to this task not only great surgical skill tempered
by a lifetime of experience, but a precious quality

414 ACTION AT AQUILA

of indomitable gaiety which he had inherited from
Huguenot ancestors. It helped sustain not the
colonel alone, but everybody else in the household.
That, and Elizabeth Crittendon’s invincible English
cheerfulness, her mental inability to admit defeat,
provided the morale for the defence of the mountain
cabin.

And beleaguered they certainly were, threatened
constantly by overwhelming assault from without,
and like all besieged garrisons, weakened by illness
and the troubles of themselves within. Elizabeth
Crittendon began the defence by doing quietly
every day what had to be done then, and no more.
That was in December. Eventually she wore time
and the elements out, and only surrendered to march
out with the honours of war in the early spring.

The chief enemy was darkness closely allied with
cold. The main defence against both was the great
fires at either end of the big log room downstairs.
There were only a few candles left and a pitifully
small supply of oil for the lamps and lanterns. This
was kept for emergencies and for the sick-room.
They lit one lamp at dinner ; a candle went upstairs
with the children when they went to bed.

The snow drifted into the little mountain valley
until it was above the tops of the low windows.
Culpepper and old man Kiskadden dug “canals”
through it to let in the grey, white light through
the old bottle-glass panes. Culpepper smashed one

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 4.I5

of them, of course, and the snow started to drift in,
a sifting, impalpable powder that covered the floor
near by with a fine spray when it melted. And
through the smashed pane came also the howls
of the wolfish wind.

It was really nothing. Dr. Wilson stopped the
smashed window with a piece of board and carpet
— but the outside seemed almost to have succeeded
in forcing an entrance. At the sight of the snow
cascading inward Margaret had become hysterical.

That snow! It was more than she could bear.
Her mother quieted her. It was the only time save
one when the name of Farfar escaped Margaret’s
lips, the only time any of the women broke down.

There was also a path dug from the front door
to the barn and another to the woodshed. In some
places the banks were higher than the heads of
those who passed between them. These paths, the
barn and sheds, and the house itself were all that
remained of free space to move in for the little
garrison of four men, three women, and two
children at Coiner’s Retreat. Later on, Culpepper
shovelled a way to the tree house where the children
would go to play for hours, wrapped in the blanket
suits the girls made for them. That was a blessed
relief for everybody. From their sheltered crow’s-
nest in the old oak Mary and Timmy could look out
over the changed and snowbound mountains. Some-
times they saw the sun. No one in the house did.

416 action at aquila

Culpepper and Mr. Kiskadden tended the fires.
A thousand times Elizabeth Crittendon had cause
to be thankful that the long Indian summer had
been used by Mr. Kiskadden and Farfar to cut
wood. Nevertheless, they husbanded it. Dr. Wilson
doled out the supplies from the room in the garret.
It was close going, for they must be made to last.
No one knew how long the snow would remain.
Culpepper was an extra and unexpected mouth and
his two mules ate sadly into the supply of provender.
But supplies there were, and, as it proved, enough
to go round. Colonel Franklin’s forethought had
saved not only the lives of the family at the cabin,
but his own as well.

It was not long before Elizabeth Crittendon
realized that Flossie was going to have a child. She
forever won Flossie’s abiding trust and lasting
affection by simply accepting the fact and talking
it over with the girl as a bright hope and comfort
for the future. Flossie was inarticulate and had an
innate sense of bodily guilt. That, if it had not been
relieved by a sensible and comforting attitude towards
her condition and circumstances, might well have
made her melancholy during the dark days in the
dark old cabin of that dark and dangerous winter.

But now there was hope, something to comfort
her for the loss of Paul, an event and a future to
look forward to. And best of all, understanding and
affection.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 417

Margaret also was told the “secret.” And that
for weeks was the only thing that made her smile.
Indeed, the three women drew a deep draught of
hope and comfort out of the well of nature in the
thought of the coming of Flossie’s baby. They
chattered about it together. They laid plans. They
made and remade what little clothes they could.
To them it was the pledge and hope that the world
was going on; that not even the war could stop it.
Seated by the fire, smoking his pipe, and watching
the three women gathered eagerly about some little
problem of sewing, or knitting an infant’s garment,
Dr. Wilson smiled and marvelled.

Margaret’s immediate salvation was much more
difficult. Elizabeth Crittendon knew her own
daughter well enough to understand that she would
hide her horror and her loss so deep within that it
would be almost impossible to reach it. To try to
discuss it with her, even to mention it, would
simply be to cause her to retire further into her
reserve — perhaps beyond hope.

And yet it was for Margaret, for her “gay and
happy Margaret,” for her bonny and charming
girl, that Elizabeth Crittendon cared more than
for anything else. It was her daughter’s future that
gave any importance to the times to come for
Elizabeth Crittendon, since for many months now
she had entirely forgotten herself. The temptation
to weaken by dreaming of the old days ; to live over

DDa

4X8 ACTION AT AQUILA

in reverie the rich and delightful years of her youth
with her husband; to grieve for him, she had put
aside. Not sternly but strongly, in order to plan
for and to be able to help others — and Margaret.

And now Margaret seemed to have been removed
from her to a place beyond. She seemed, despite
her bodily presence and her unfaltering devotion
and sweetness of manner, to be rapt into another
world. How to reach her there — how to reach her!

That was what kept Elizabeth Grittendon awake
at night as she sat by Colonel Franklin’s bed during
those first weeks when the colonel wandered
between life and death, and frequently audibly in
the paths of his past.

Most of the time Colonel Franklin seemed to
know that she was sitting there. He would open his
eyes wide, as though he were still in darkness.
Then he would find her again and smile. Often
they would talk together in low tones while the
household slept, taking mutual comfort against
the silence in the sound of their voices. Then the
colonel would slip off into some corner of his mind,
from sheer weakness unable to hold to the present.
At first he would be telling her something about
the past — then he would be alone in it again, still
talking, until his voice died away in a low, busy
murmur into sleep.

It was a help to him, she found, to let him do this.
It reassured him, and gradually she discovered it

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 419

reassured her that she, too, was not alone. As he
grew stronger, they would discuss some of the
immediate problems of the besieged household, or
of the future, until those talks with the colonel at
night became a rod and a staff to Elizabeth
Crittendon.

Nothing had daunted him either. Neither pain
nor the loss of his leg and the regiment. He seemed
to regard them as equally calamitous — but not as
defeat.

“ With one leg and one mind one can still march
far,” he insisted, with a little whimsical touch that
more than anything else always brought a lump
into her throat as she watched him.

Thus she came to know him, to understand him
as she could never have come to understand him
otherwise, for the veils had been drawn aside, at
times unconsciously, and she saw Nathaniel
Franklin’s inner world by occasional glimpses, and
in it Nathaniel Franklin as he saw himself.

It was he who finally helped most with Margaret.
Margaret and Dr. Wilson used also to go and sit
with him as he lay those long winter months in
Paul’s lonely little room. Flossie could not bear to
go there. But one day as Elizabeth Crittendon
was going upstairs she heard the colonel telling
Margaret how he had found Farfar. It was, she
understood immediately, like a father talking to his
child. She heard Margaret’s choked voice saying

420 ACTION AT A Q_UIL A

something, and then she fled downstairs again and
left them alone.

That evening Margaret came into her mother’s
room and put her head in her lap and cried a
little. “Mummy,” said she, “I’ve been a selfish
old thing. But I heard something today that’s
brought me back again. I’ve just been away
awhile. All of you were like dreams to me, even
the house. Do you know I got lost in it the other
day, just trying to come downstairs. It was because
of something I was thinking about that I was trying
to hide from and trying to keep, too, forever;
to keep always real because I loved it — and it’s
gone away. But I know I can’t lose it. I know it’s
with me like you still have father — and you go on in
the world where we are now. I reckon we’ve just
been left alone here together, mummy. I wish
you’d give me something to do.”

So Elizabeth Crittendon took her child, who was
no longer a little girl, to her heart and comforted
her. And they were no more alone. Margaret was
not lost in the shadows, and her mother gave her
something to do. She gave her the exacting task of
mothering little Mary and Timmy Crittendon.

“My!” said little Mary to her aunt a bit later.
“My goodness, Meg’s just the bestest girl. She’s
just a honey to me and Tim, and we don’t never
tease her at all. I ’membered about that song.”

“Good,” said Elizabeth Crittendon, “good!” —

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 42 1

and her eyes filled with tears of grateful relief and
sad memory.

It was wonderful, indeed, how the glow of cheer
and warmth from the courageous hearts of those
who were imprisoned in the cabin irradiated the
whole of Coiner’s Retreat like the fires that also
burned constantly that winter in the old log room.
Actually that room was walled in by drear silence
and deathly cold. It was lit at best by a grey
twilight reluctantly penetrating from the short
winter day without. But that was not the light
they lived by.

Everything went on in that room. The day began
by Culpepper and Mr. Kiskadden dragging in logs
and building up the fires from the embers of the
back logs that glowed from the night before. Then
the women came down and got the morning meal.
Culpepper helped. He loved to fry bacon, and he
waited faithfully and cheerfully upon them all,
redolent of Africa and the stable. There were two
tables set close to the fires that would be leaping
by this time and sending flashes of light and shadow
through the room, for it was still dark outside.
Margaret and Flossie sat at one table with the
children; Mrs. Crittendon and the doctor and
Mr. Kiskadden at the other.

It was Dr. Wilson who brought gaiety into the
room. He began at breakfast to beat back the
darkness. He always had a surprise in his pockets

422 ACTION AT AQUILA

for the children, a surprise in his mind for Mrs.
Crittendon, a mock formality with “ Miss Meg and
Miss Flossie” that both impressed and amused
them. Everybody had to tell him their dreams, even
Culpepper, and Culpepper had to report what the
mules had said last night about everybody.

This stunt proved to be enormously popular as it
always included the latest news of Coiner’s Retreat
with personals about everybody from the critical
standpoint of Culpepper’s mules. Even old man
Kiskadden had to laugh. And as the mornings
passed one after the other, the epic grew — till
even Dr. Wilson, who was secretly alarmed at the
duration of the siege, smiled inwardly, having
produced that result upon himself as well as
others.

Then the work of the day would really begin.
Snow would be melted and the water warmed for
the children’s bath before the fire. All the water
had to be secured that way. And while Margaret
was bathing the children, and Mrs. Crittendon and
Flossie were busy about the household tasks, Dr.
Wilson would slip upstairs to dress the colonel’s
wound during a fiery little half-hour of agony
for himself and the colonel. Yet because of it
the wound grew better. And the day came when the
doctor announced as proudly as the bearer of the
first tidings of victory that the wound was beginning
to heal.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 423

The essential thing was that everybody was kept
busy. Elizabeth Crittendon saw to it. The difficulties
of existing, of keeping everything clean, of living in
a half-light by day and dim firelight by night, of
washing clothes and getting meals and living
socially all in one room, albeit a large one — the
very difficulties of it were made the means by which
the dreary inertia, the terrible monotony of the cabin
locked in by silent walls of snow in the impenetrable -
mountain valley were overcome.

Everyone had a task and a routine. When one
lacked, it was invented. The evenings were the
greatest triumphs of all. They were often positively
merry, and nothing better, under the circumstances,
could have been achieved. Time passed slowly and
yet, as they looked back upon it, because it was a
timeless kind of existence, swiftly in retrospect.

Yet there were hours and moments when
Elizabeth Crittendon despaired, when even her old
Church of England prayer-book brought her no
comfort when she lit her candle for a few minutes
to read it before going to sleep. The faces about
her, she knew, were growing whiter and more
haggard. The eternal twilight of the house seemed
to be pressing in on her. And it was her light that
they all depended upon. If that should flicker, if
that should go out!

She knew she ought not to, but since she dared
not mention this growing conviction of eventual

424 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

failure to Margaret, she burst out with it to the
colonel one evening as she was sitting in his room.
He had said something to her, diffidently, about
her plans for after the war.

“Sometimes,” she said, “I think we shall never
get away, that we are just caught here until the
end — forever!”

“All of us have felt that way at times,” he replied
after a while. “But I am sure now that we shall be
released. By the way my old leg out on the field
there keeps cutting up, I think we shall have a
thaw soon.” He laughed. “No, nothing lasts forever.
Perhaps I wish that this would last longer than you
desire it to do. I am very happy here — now. Did
you know that?”

“I am glad of it,” she said, and could go no
further.

“There is something I have long wanted to tell
you,” he said again after a pause. “I had a letter
I carried for months that I was supposed to have
given you. It was lost, I think, from my coat-pocket
the day of the battle. But you should know, even
if . . . ”

“I know,” she said. “I found it.”

There was a long silence between them. He looked
worn and pale, she thought; very helpless and
lonely.

“And you have forgiven me?” he asked at last
in an incredulous whisper.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 425

“Oh, long ago,” she said. “Long ago!” She
kept repeating it. She felt the blood burning in her
cheeks, and leaned forward, burying her face in
the counterpane to hide it from him.

He laid his hand on her head gently, and stroked
her hair. It was as golden as a young girl’s in the
candlelight.

“There is peace between us, isn’t there, Eliza-
beth?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes! We must find
peace somewhere, somehow, at last.

“Think of what has happened to us!” she cried
out, throwing her head back vehemently and
looking at him. “Think of it!” Her comb dropped
out but she paid no attention to that. “How can
people like you and me keep on hating and killing
each other? What is it about the States? Our lives
have been ruined by them. I am going to take
Margaret back to England. There will be peace
there — for her.” She looked at him with a far-away
look.

“And for you?” he asked.

She shook her head. Her hair came tumbling
down about her face and over her shoulders. He
wound his fingers in it.

“Don’t go,” said he, and began to plead with
her. “There is another way out. There is only one
way for us two to end this war. My dear, I have a
proposal to make,” The trace of a whimsical smile

426 ACTION AT AQUILA

began shaping his lips. “ It is a political proposition,
of course. Do you want to hear it?”

“Yes,” she murmured, “but please let go of my
hair.” Instead, he drew her face closer to him.

“Let us,” said he, “form an indestructible
union!”

His great longing and strong tenderness lay like
a refuge before her.

“I know it is asking you to surrender,” he mur-
mured, “but will you, Elizabeth? I don’t care to
live if you go away. I couldn’t help loving you.”

Her head sank to his breast.

“I know,” she whispered, and his arms stole
about her.

Her hair streamed across his breast. His white,
emaciated hand kept stroking it in the candlelight.
The war had left little flesh on the hand, but there
might have been less. Its touch could still bring
comfort. Both of them knew they had found the
only peace there was.

It was about three o’clock that morning when
Margaret came to her mother’s room. She was
surprised to see a chink of light under her door.
She tapped but scarcely paused before entering.
Her mother was in her nightgown, but she was
standing before the old cracked mirror with a
shawl thrown over her shoulders in a fashionable
manner. She was trying where best to pin a brooch.
Her hair was done in a way Margaret had never

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 427

seen her use before, and she had evidently been
trying things on, for her trunk was open and there
were hats and dresses on the bed.

“Mother!” gasped Margaret.

Elizabeth Crittendon was not a bit dismayed.
She finished pinning the brooch to her satisfaction,
threw the fringe of her best shawl over her arm, and
turned to her daughter, tilting her head to one
side a little. “How do I look?” she demanded.

“Beautiful,” said Margaret. “Why, you look just
like a bride! ” And there was the note of a surprised
admiration in her voice.

“Oh, I love you for that,” cried her mother.
“Meg, you always were a darling!”

“ Why don’t you wear your hair that way often? ”
asked Margaret.

“I’m going to from now on!” was the reply.
“But why are you here this time of night? Not
bad dreams again, I hope.”

“No, no, good news! Listen, can’t you hear it?”
said Margaret.

They stood listening intently for a moment. One
of the mules stamped out in the stable, the clock
went on ticking downstairs. Then they both heard it
distinctly. It was the sound of water running some-
where, and a steady drip from the eaves.

“It’s thawing,” said Margaret, throwing her
arms about her mother wildly. “Soon it will be
spring again! And we’ll be free!”

428 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Yes,” said Elizabeth Crittendon, “we’re going
to come through. I believe that now.” She gave
her daughter a kiss on the forehead. “Sit down a
minute, Meg, there’s something I must tell you.
Up until now I’ve been afraid to let you know.”

“If its about father, mummy, I’ve known about
it long before you did. I overheard Dr. Holtzmaier
say something to the colonel months ago that I
wasn’t supposed to hear, and I put two and two
together. I’ve been afraid to say anything to you.
You had so much to bear, and we both loved him
so. Now I can’t cry about him any more.”

“It’s beyond tears for me, Meg. I called for you
the night I first learned of it, but you had gone.
You know where.”

“Yes,” agreed Margaret. “It is underneath our
tears. It’s sorrow. He will always be there — like,
like ...” Her mother nodded, speechless. “Like
Willum! ” she said, and put her head in her mother’s
lap. “I’m sorry I wasn’t in the house when you
needed me,” she whispered.

“Meg,” said her mother, “I want to tell you
something else. I might as well tell you now', and
I think you will understand.” She paused for a
moment. “I . . . I . . .”

“Oh, don’t, mother. I know why you looked so
young again to-night,” replied Margaret, raising
her face to peer into her mother’s. “Oh, yes, it’s
best for all of us, and if it makes you beautiful

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 429

again it must be right! But just promise me one
thing — you won’t let it make any difference
between us. Will you?”

“Never,” said Elizabeth Crittendon. “It
couldn’t. I had you for love, Margaret. Do you
see?”

Margaret patted her hand, and they sat listening
to the drip from the roof. It was much faster now.

“I’d like to sleep with you tonight, mummy,
just like I did when I was a little girl,” said
Margaret. “I was afraid. That’s why I came to
your room.”

Mrs. Crittendon quietly took the hats and
dresses off the bed and put them away while
Margaret snuggled under the bed-clothes. She
blew out the candle.

“Darling,” said she in the darkness, “I hope
sometime you’ll have a daughter like you. It’s the
best thing I know.”

“ Maybe,” said Margaret, and caught her breath
a little. “He might be a boy though, you know.”

Elizabeth Crittendon took her “little girl” in
her arms again.

The colonel’s lost leg proved to be a good weather
prophet. Thaw it did. The rains descended and the
winds blew. The snow slid off the roof with the
noise of an avalanche, until Coiner’s Retreat was

430 ACTION AT AQUILA

filled with the roar of the falls and a tumult of waters
as Aquila Creek rushed over the dam. Everyone in the
household went about listening to noise again with
the delight of a deaf man who has been cured. The
deep winter silence, they all realized now, had been
appalling. And there was sunlight again. One day
the windows were pried open and the doors stood
ajar. They walked out and shouted, and laughed
at how pale and groggy they were. Spring came
marching up the Valley of the Shenandoah. The
snow and rains went down the river in a great flood.

There was only one unhappiness about the
welcome thaw. The roads would soon be open and
Dr. Wilson was going to go. Just where, he was not
sure, for he had had no news from the outside
world for over three months.

“ Perhaps the war is over,” said Margaret hopefully.
They were sitting on the front steps in the sunlight.

“If it is,” said the doctor, “it will mean that the
North has won.”

“I hope it’s over,” reiterated Margaret. “The
South will still be there. I can still smell it in the
breeze. They can’t ever do without it. It’s where
spring comes from.” She leaned back with her
hands behind her head, feeling the sun. A thrush
sang far off.

She felt the weight of a head in her lap and someone
was saying, “It is spring again. Don’t you feel it?”

Someone came and kissed her lightly on the

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 43 1

forehead. She knew it was Dr. Wilson, though.
She opened her eyes afterwhile to look at him, but
he had gone . . .

Mrs. Crittendon “lent” him her horse.

“You will probably never see her again,” Dr.
Wilson had said. “And I know you love her.”

“It is all I have left to give now,” she said. “But
it’s not a sacrifice. I couldn’t keep her. She reminds
me of too many things. I give her to you. I hope
she carries you home.”

Dr. Wilson kissed her hand. That was quite
natural with him.

“Lady,” he said, still holding her fingers, “I
wish you much happiness to come. You are a
great woman. Now, I can’t say good-bye to our
mutual enemy the colonel” — he smiled — “but I
wish you would give him my love. And I wish you
would kiss all the others for me, except your
daughter. You see, I kissed her myself. Good-bye.”

He waved his hat and rode off down the valley —
just as they had all gone, one after the other.

“Oh,” said she to the colonel a little later,
“my God, Nat, I hope that’s the last man I ever
have to see ride off to war. My God, I hope it!”

“It won’t be long now,” he replied.

“No?” she said. “Well, they can’t ever take
you again, anyway.”

“No, that’s over,” he answered a little sadly,
and felt for her hand.

432 ACTION AT AQ.UILA

“I know another thing,” he said after a bit.
“Look!” He jogged her elbow.

She looked up. A robin was perching on the
window-sill. In the spring sunlight they both sat
in Paul’s bare little room smiling at each other.
The robin had flown in and gone fluttering down-
stairs.

“Amen,” said the colonel.

Who so happy as Surgeon Holtzmaier when he
rode into Coiner’s Retreat one fine spring morning
and found his friend Colonel Franklin sitting on the
porch smoking a pipe and enjoying the sunlight.

“Py Gott!” said he. “Ve get you out of dis yet.”

He and Felix Mann began laying their heads
together. They were still living in the little stone
farmhouse by the river where they had passed the
winter on short rations, a pack of cards, and
plenty of fire- wood.

The government seemed to have forgotten them.
Most of the wounded had died. The camp was a
sodden wreck. Mr. Mann drove with Culpepper
to Winchester where he got two wagonloads of
rations by pure finesse.

Corps headquarters had moved months before,
and nobody at the now nearly deserted quarter-
master’s bureau there had ever heard of the
6th Pennsylvania Cavalry or of survivors at Aquila.

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 433

Dr. Holtzmaier determined to move the remnant
of his convalescents to Harpers Ferry on his own
responsibility. “Vot if I do cotch hell,” he said.
“Ve all cotch dot anyvay.” The men cheered this
truism feebly. Those that were able came up to
see the colonel to say good-bye to him.

Everybody gathered on the porch. A corporal
with one arm tried to make a speech and bawled
like a baby. The colonel shook hands. He was
unable to say anything at all. All the hands felt
thin, but they were still warm.

“It was just dreadful,” cried Margaret after-
wards. “ They acted as if they were sorry they had to
go home. Maybe it’s because they live at tire North,”
she said, patting the colonel’s hand and looking
at her mother. “I reckon we’ll like it though,”
she added breathlessly, and burst into tears.

“Margaret,” cried her mother, “please!”

“I couldn’t help it, could I, colonel?” she said a
little later, bending over him.

“I don’t see how you could, my dear,” said he.

“There!” said Margaret.

She and Flossie rode down to “Whitesides” next
day and transferred some English violets that grew
in the garden to a spot near Aquila in the corner
of an old stone wall. They took all day to it and
said nothing.

Flossie and Mr. Kiskadden were going to stay
on at Coiner’s Retreat. Later in the summer they

EEa

434 ACTION AT AQUILA

were to move down to “Whitesides” to try to farm
the place. One of the outbuildings was still habit-
able. The baby was to be born there. It was Mrs.
Crittendon’s plan to turn the place over to Flossie
and her child if they could make a go of it. What
would become of the Crittendon properties in
Virginia was now problematical. They would have
to wait. Meanwhile, Mrs. Flossie Crittendon would
have to do the best she could. She understood that.
Neither she nor her father would go North, and
there was no other alternative but the farm. Flossie
was satisfied. Sometimes Margaret envied her.

Margaret could scarcely bear the thought of
leaving Virginia. She longed to tell her mother
about the old garden at “Whitesides.” How it was
coming into bloom again. How there was no house
there. Only a black hole in the ground. But she
knew her mother couldn’t bear to hear about it,
and forebore.

She wondered what Pennsylvania would be like.
She rode Midge all over the old hills and roads she
loved, filling her eyes and heart with the spring
glories of the Blue Ridge and the song of the
Shenandoah. She might not see them again for a
long time. Perhaps never. That thought made her
cry out. She rode restlessly for two weeks, “every-
where” — everywhere but into the Giant’s Nursery.

And during those two weeks she never met
anyone. The Valley was one vast solitude. That

AN INDESTRUCTIBLE UNION 435

solitude sank into her soul ; it and the lonely voice
of the rolling Shenandoah remained in the young
girl’s heart as the song of her country’s grief. And
it remained there for ever.

The colonel had not been able to travel when
Dr. Holtzmaier left. It had been arranged that
Felix Mann was to come back for him. Meanwhile,
Margaret rode the hills and Elizabeth Crittendon
prepared to depart — bravely. She was ready now.
The colonel sat in the sun and grew stronger.
Flossie’s child began to leap in the womb. Generals
Grant and Lee met in a farmhouse near Appomat-
tox to talk things over. At Aquila, and other places,
the foxes and beetles were busy in and about shallow
graves. Those who still lay in the open looking
up at heaven no longer had an astonished expression.
The eternal sardonic grin was showing through.

At half past five o’clock of a magnificent spring
evening Felix Mann drove into Coiner’s Retreat
with a buckboard, a big wagon, Culpepper, and
a team of mules. Next morning they left early for
Harpers Ferry. Like Lot’s wife, Elizabeth Critten-
don looked back only once.

Southward, two mighty ranges of the Appala-
chians shouldered their way into the blue distance
like tremendous caravans marching across eternity.
Between those parallel ridges the Valley of the
Shenandoah lay as serene and beautiful as the
interior of the Isles of Aves.

CHAPTER XIX

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED
OATS

The bands played “There’ll be a hot
time in the old town tonight,” and there was, for
all Philadelphia turned out to see the boys off for
the Spanish War. A good time was had by almost
everybody. It was just another circus parade.

Colonel Franklin had come clear in from Kennett
Square to see the militia start south. It wasn’t
quite so much fun for him. For an old man nearly
eighty, with only one leg, it was an exhausting per-
formance. He stood on the steps of the Union League
Club, propped on his crutch, with other G.A.R.
veterans. Their white vests and beards, their blue
coats, brass buttons, and old-fashioned caps with a
wreath on them made a splash of dark colour under
the glare of the arc lights and red fire. Red fire, flags,
and bunting were everywhere. The crowd surged
and howled. The troops came marching down Broad
Street towards the station and passed under a big sign
hung on a net which said, “Remember the Maine.”

It was the militia again, of course. They called
it the National Guard now. There wasn’t any
regular army to speak of, and the volunteers would

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 437

have to come later. Somebody had to die first.
The crowd was wise to that joke, too. Most of the
bands, which were made up of foreigners, came in
for a good deal of “joshing.” The City Troop, the
Fourth Pennsylvania Regiment, the State Fencibles
and other units marched past. A colonel mounted
on a black horse at the head of one regiment rode
well. He saluted the veterans while his horse
danced. They shouted at him. Some of them had
been drinking. The Union League had been
hospitable. “Hi, Santa Claus,” said a passing
corporal to an old veteran with a white beard and
red nose. The ranks laughed. They were glad they
had been called out. It was an adventure. They
were tired of their jobs. They were the centre of
attention. No one threw anything at them or shouted
“scabs.” It was their occasion. “Hi, Santa Claus!”

Colonel Franklin leaned on his crutch sick in
mind, body, and soul.

After the troops came the politicians, big, heavy-
jowled, gloomy fellows in high hats and frock coats,
looking each other brazenly in the face from the
opposite seats of double victorias. They followed the
flag. A roar of welcome greeted them from the Union
League. Veterans and citizens knew who was worth
cheering — who supported pensions and high tariffs.
The funeral procession of the Republic moved on.

It seemed impossible to Colonel Franklin that he
should have lived to see it. All in one lifetime,

438 ACTION AT AQUILA

Buchanan’s prophecy was coming true. After the
politicians came a Kilty band. One Ian Macintosh,
the bass drummer, climbed over his drum, enter-
ing along with the bagpipes into the full cattle-
raiding spirit of his ancestors and the present
remarkable occasion. That the raid was now on a
planetary scale and comprehended in its sweep
both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans made no
difference to him. He was a good American Scot
and the band was only hired. After the fake
Highland band trundled a float with a model of
the battleship Maine sinking. Then came a long
procession of the delivery wagons of leading
Philadelphia merchants, who thus delicately took
the opportunity to testify to their patriotism and
to tout their goods at the same time. These marched
past, like Christian soldiers, “as to war.” Indeed,
some of the oldest names in the city thus pressed
towards the front, but turned aside at Walnut
Street. The wagons were followed by a band play-
ing hymns and a large delegation of the W.C.T.U.
marching robustly and inveterately. Opposition was
their meat, and the crowd fed it to them raw. After
them came their sons in the various boys’ brigades
and cadet corps from the Sunday-schools of the
city. Some young lady Christian Endeavourers in
American flags brought up the rear. The very last
unit of the van consisted of an old open wagon with
semi-oval wheels in which upon kitchen chairs sat six

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 439

ladies in six pairs of spectacles and concave profiles.
“Lady Readers of Emerson,” proclaimed the home-
made sign over their heads. One of them waved a
Cuban flag, probably a form of compensation.

“There’ll be a hot time in the old town tonight,”
sang the band at the station, where the “boys”
were getting into the box-cars provided for them
by the railroad.

The colonel hobbled down the club steps as soon
as the crowd would let him and across the street
to the old Bellevue Hotel, where he was going to
spend the night. He sat down in the lobby. Cul-
pepper, who was a white-haired old darky now,
hovered over him solicitously.

“I’ll get a good rest and we’ll drive back to
Kennett Square tomorrow,” said the colonel.
“Go out and enjoy yourself.”

“Ah doan jes’ like de way yo looks,” said
Culpepper.

“Now get on with you,” said the colonel. “I’ll
be all right in the morning.”

“ Maybe I’d better drive you aroun’ to Miss
Margaret’s,” said Culpepper. “ It’s jes’ a few blocks.”

“Miss Margaret” was now Mrs. Mol tan. Some
years after the war she had married the young man
who had once called the colonel a Copperhead.
He had returned a captain, minus an arm.

“Now don’t you dare say anything to Mrs.
Moltan, Pepper!” said the colonel anxiously. “You

440 ACTION AT AQUILA

know I don’t want her to know we’ve come up to
Philadelphia at all. She’d worry about me, and
Mr. Moltan would raise Ned about our staying at
the hotel. Help me into the elevator. Be ready to
leave tomorrow morning at ten.”

For a moment people paused in the Bellevue
lobby as the old coloured man helped the colonel,
whose crutch clattered on the tiles, into the elevator.

“There’s a picture for you,” said the night clerk
to the cashier.

“Shut up,” said the cashier, “I’m counting
money.”

A very large man in a supremely gorgeous uni-
form joined the colonel in the elevator. “I’m Major
Jepson, on the governor’s staff,” said he, inflating the
gingerbread on his chest slightly, “editor of the — ”
he named a famous old Pennsylvania newspaper.

“ Colonel Franklin of the Sixth Pennsylvania
Cavalry,” said the colonel, straightening a little as
he said it.

They shook hands. The elevator started up.

“Fine send-off they gave the boys to-night,”
insisted the editor-major.

“Wonderful,” said the colonel. “Politics, busi-
ness, reform, and idealism saw them as far as the
depot.” His eyes twinkled.

“Eh?” said Mr. Jepson. “Oh, say, now I’ll use
that! What did you say your name was?” He
pulled out a pencil.

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 44I

“Fifth floor,” sang out the elevator man.

The colonel stumped out, and down the hall to his
room. He leaned on his crutch and tried to open the
door. He cussed a little. One leg wasn’t so good
to stand on in the dark. Whatever you said they
used it in their own way, for themselves, he thought.
They always had. “Free Texas,” “On to Mexico
City,” he could even remember that. It wasn’t so
long ago. And as for “Free the Slaves” and “On
to Richmond,” that was only yesterday. Now it
was “Free Cuba,” “Remember the Maine.” Well,
he wouldn’t be around probably to find out what
those words would turn into. He felt relieved at the
thought and sank back on the bed. Maybe the joke
this time would be unusually cosmic ? The troop trains
pulling out whistled in the yards, and whistled. He
remembered that night at “Wheatland.” The two
nights seemed to be the same; merged into sleep.

“Ah sware ah doan believe yo took off yoh does
las’ night, sah,” said Culpepper in a shocked tone as
he helped the colonel into the carriage next morning.

“Never mind that,” said the colonel. “You
drive straight home. I am pretty tired.”

It was some days before the colonel felt well
enough to sit out on the porch again at Kennett
Square. It was a hot day and he still felt drowsy.'
The recent trip to the city had excited him; worn
him out more than he cared to admit. He read
the paper and nodded. Culpepper was singing one

442 ACTION AT AQ,UILA

of those endless darky tunes somewhere in the
back of the house.

“If the Maine had been sunk in an English
harbour, we’d never have gone to war with
England, my dear,” said the colonel aloud.

There was no reply.

It was hard for him to get used to that. His wife’s
chair was still where it had always been on the porch.
He could almost see her sitting there in the shadow
of the vines. Sometimes he forgot. It was the silence
that reminded him. He laid his newspaper down un-
comfortably and let his glance wander out into the
deep shadows under the maples on the lawn. They
were huge trees now. His father and James Buchanan
had planted them. He could remember the very
day. It was about the first thing he could remember.
That morning would be almost seventy-five years
ago, come next autumn. Strange how readily the
past came back to him lately ! As long as Elizabeth had
lived life had kept renewing itself. The past seemed
to be catching up with him now, he reflected.

Down the drive the postman was coming through
the gate.

There wasn’t much mail that morning. A note
from Margaret, saying she and the family would
be down on the late afternoon train to stay over
the week-end. Would he send Culpepper to the
station for them at Media? They would so like
the drive over. He called Culpepper and told him.

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 443

The old place seemed brighter already at the
prospect of Margaret and her family’s being there.
They were all that remained.

Mary Crittendon had married a missionary and
gone to live in Hawaii. She had two daughters he
had never seen. They never came home. Young
Timmy had died years ago of pneumonia. He was
scarcely a dream now. Flossie and her boy Paul
had found hard going in Virginia. Now that
Elizabeth was gone they wrote seldom.

He turned to his mail again. Letters seemed to
come out of the past.

There was one from the Treasury Department.
He opened it with some curiosity. It wasn’t his
pension. It was out of schedule. A cheque for
$18.37 fluttered out. He smoothed it out over his
knee and put on his spectacles, to read the com-
munication that accompanied it.

Somebody, it seemed, had once introduced a
bill into the House of Representatives, which the
Senate had passed and the President signed. That
was years ago. It was to reimburse certain officers
above the rank of captain, etc. etc. etc., “for
oats consumed by the horse or horses of the said
officers during the late Rebellion.” The colonel
dimly remembered once having signed a claim
form about oats. About a generation ago. And
now the eternal wheels of the government had got
around to it — -just about in time. He was a pretty

444 ACTION AT AQUILA

old man now. He picked up his cheque for expended
oats with some emotion. Actually it was for the oats
consumed by Black Girl in the Valley of the
Shenandoah in the autumn of 1864.

The colonel folded the cheque and put it in his
pocket. He hadn’t thought of Black Girl for years.
And those days in the Valley! The mountains!
What a magnificent autumn it had been. The very
thought of it made him feel young again. Really it
was only a few years ago. In retrospect time passed
like a flash. He put his hands behind his head and
lay back, looking up at the sunlight caught in the
vine leaves of the Dutchman’s pipe. Presently he
closed his eyes. He scarcely heard Culpepper driving
off to get the Moltans at Media. Only the sound of
the horses’ hoofs was taken into his reverie.

Yesterday, yesterday, yesterday came the far
strokes of the hoofbeats. And then suddenly the
colonel was young again.

He could feel the cool breeze from the moun-
tains in his face, and a horse under him. He was
strong and he had two legs. Lord, it was good to
be able to grip with his knees and feel the horse
fill her lungs! They were riding down a pass with
mountain walls towering on either side, all scarlet
and yellow, a molten sunshine glimmering through
the leaves. Somebody was trying to catch up with
him. He could hear the sound of hoofs on stones.
It must be Far far. How worried he was about that

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 445

boy. He must be riding on that sepulchral mule.
Why, it would be a skeleton now! He touched
Black Girl and they whirled down the pass, out
into a valley on dusty roads. Voices called from the
farmhouses that he passed galloping, and galloping
faster and faster. Y esterday, yesterday yesterday, and
then as Black Girl seemed to gather speed and soar,
tomorrow, and tomorrow and tomorrow.

It was Philadelphia again. A long street that
diminished into the perspective, but always in the
same town. Behind him were small houses and open
fields, but as he galloped on, the hard stones of a
city pavement rang under the iron hoofs of his
horse, the houses grew closer and larger, the
crowds denser and hurrying swifter and more swiftly.

At last in the distance rose a Babylon of towers
that scraped the sky. The whole horizon ahead
was ranged with them. Everyone was hurrying in
that direction. He tried to call out to them to ask
where they were going. But no one would pause
to reply. They seemed not to see or to hear him.
They hurried on, out of the past into the future,
intent upon a vast business that time had laid
upon them; getting away from something, pursu-
ing some dream that lay before. Something that
was everybody’s concern, that none could avoid, a
universal must that made a union and an entity,
a unity and a nation out of all of them that passed
along that avenue of the city; out of those that he

446 ACTION AT AQUILA

had left toiling behind and those that now rushed
headlong past him to go on eagerly before.

He could see for leagues now before and behind.
He could see where the avenue emerged from the
dark forest of the past and where it led far beyond
the towers over hills splashed with storm and sunshine
into the forest again. How unfamiliar, how terrifying
the long road was getting to be. How impossible it
was that he should travel any more of the way. He
asked to be spared. “Let me be troubled no more.”
And it was then that he felt a hand laid upon his
bridle rein and he and the horse were turned aside.

It was into a familiar place. It was the same
blind archway where he had turned aside once
long ago to watch a certain regiment march past
in the year 1864.

But for him the years were numbered no longer.
Where he sat in the dim archway on the shadowy
horse the past, present, and future were blending
into one. There were no more years.

He was a young man with his hand on his
father’s shoulder watching the regiments moving
out of the city to invade Mexico, and he was
Nathaniel Franklin, colonel-at-war, sitting astride
his war-horse, and calling out to young Moltan
and the regiment that had disappeared into the dust
with the newspapers blowing along behind it, and
he was the old veteran leaning upon a crutch, see-
ing the boys off to Cuba. He was that one man.

A CHEQUE FOR EXPENDED OATS 447

And to that one man, whose single lifetime had
passed every instant in the present, all the regi-
ments that had passed before him were caught up
into that present and were as one regiment. The
drums of a century sounded as a single drumming
in his ears. And the drums rolling in the future
thundered the same step as those that had gone
before. The step of men marching, marching one
foot after the other under the compulsion of time,
out of the past into the future, fighting their
battles along the way.

“Now we are engaged in a great war to . . . ”
And he understood that “now” for the first time.
There was no end to it. It renewed itself for each
man and so for all men in the ever-living present.
It was an eternal now that belonged to the ages.
It meant “forever.”

How long, O Lord, how long . . .

The present was all, was more than a man
could bear.

How long . . . ?

Someone was beating his hand against the
colonel’s left knee. A vanished hand against a
vanished knee. The colonel looked down from his
horse as though into the present again.

Charles R. Ross

ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

448 ACTION AT AQUILA

“Let me tell you, sir, my opinion in regard to
the matter,” said the preposterous little man. He
removed his hat with the selfsame forensic flourish
that he had employed in Philadelphia in 1864.

“‘An indestructible union of indestructible states’
. . .You will remember the source of the opinion,
of course. The mouth that gave birth to the nation.
. . destined to endure for ages to come.’”

Mr. Ross bowed, clapped his hat on his head
and seemed to diminish rather than to ascend up
the stairs into his office. There was a wreath round
the name plate on the door.

Why, it’s a dream, thought the colonel. The
man’s dead.

“Nevertheless,” said the ghost of the law, look-
ing down at the military, “these sentiments are
now irrevocable.” He disappeared into the dark-
ness beyond. The door closed behind him slowly.

Through a space in the vine leaves the afternoon
sun pierced suddenly and lingered for a few minutes
on the face of the dreamer. The light seemed to
have undone the work of time. For the face had
suddenly grown much younger, calmer. Those
who had known him in the Valley in the time of
the great war would have known him again.

Nathaniel Franklin, colonel-at-peace.

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